THE 

Albert  M.  Shipp 
Library 


By  Miss  Susie  V.  Shipp 
November,  1921 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 
in  2015 


I 


Iittps://arcliive.org/details/drblairslectures01blai 


Dean^s  Stereotype  Edition, 

DR.  BLAIR'S 

LECTUEES  01  EHETOEIC. 

ABRIDaED, 
WITH  QUESTIONS. 


PHILADELPHIA : 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  ;&  CO. 
1857. 


Entered  accordiug  to  the  Act  of  Congress.  Ir?  the  year  one  Thousand 
Eight  Hundred  and  Forty- Kight,  by  W  E.  Dean,  in  the  Clerk's 
Office  of  the  Southern  District  of  New  Yor? 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  want  of  a  system  of  Rhetoric  upon  a  concis 
plan,  and  at  an  easy  price,  will,  it  is  presumed, 
render  this  httle  volume  acceptable  to  the  pubKc. 
To  collect  knowledge,  which  is  scattered  over  a 
wide  extent,  into  a  small  compass,  if  it  has  not  the 
merit  of  originality,  has  at  least  the  advantage  of 
being  useful.  Many,  who  are  terrified  at  the  idea  of 
travelling  over  a  ponderous  volume  in  search  of  in- 
formation, will  yet  set  out  on  a  short  journey  in 
pursuit  of  science  with  alacrity  and  profit.  Those, 
for  whom  the  following  essays  are  principally 
intended,  will  derive  peculiar  benefit  from  the  brevity 
with  which  they  are  conveyed.  To  youth,  who  are 
engaged  in  the  rudiments  of  learning ;  whose  time 
and  attention  must  be  occupied  by  a  variety  of  sub- 
jects ;  every  branch  of  science  should  be  rendered 
as  concise  as  possible.  Hence  the  attention  is  not 
fatigued,  nor  the  memory  overloaded. 

That  the  knov/ledge  of  Rhetoric  forms  a  very 
material  part  of  the  education  of  a  pohte  scholar 
must  be  universally  allowed.  An  attempt,  there- 
fore, however  imperfect,  to  make  so  useful  an  art 
more  generally  known,  has  claim  to  that  praise 
which  is  the  reward  of  good  mtention.  With  this 
the  editor  will  be  sufficiently  satisfied  ;  since  being 
serviceable  to  others  is  the  most  agi-eeable  method 
of  becoming  contented  udtli  ourselves. 

The  arrangement  of  the  questions,  as  in  this  edi- 
tion, is  evidently  more  convenient,  than  the  plan  of 
placing  them  at  the  close  of  the  lecture,  the  end  of 
.iie  book,  or  in  a  separate  pamphlet. 

S4550T 


LECTUKES  ON  RHETORIC. 


LECTURE  1.  ' 

INTRODUCTION. 

A  PROPER  acquaintance  with,  the  circle  of  hberal 
arts  is  requisite  to  the  study  of  Rhetoric  and  Belles 
Lettres.  To  extend  the  knowledge  of  them  must  be 
the  first  care  of  those  who  wish,  either  to  write  with 
reputation,  or  so  to  express  themselves  in  public,  as  to . 
command  attention.  Among  the  ancients  it  was  an 
essentia]  principle,  that  the  orator  ought  to  be  conver- 
sant in  every  department  of  learning.  No  art  indeed 
can  be  contrived  which  can  stamp  merit  on  a  compo- 
sition, rich  or  splendid  in  expression,  but  bari'en  or  er- 
roneous in  sentiment.  Oratory,  it  is  true,  has  often 
been  disgraced  by  attempts  to  establish  a  false  ci-ite- 
rion  of  its  value.  Writers  have  endeavoured  to  supply 
want  of  matter  by  graces  of  composition  ;  and  cointed 
the  temporary  applause  of  the  ignorant  instead  of  the 
lasting  approbation  of  the  discerning.  But  such  im- 
posture must  be  short  and  transitory.  The  body  and 
substance  of  any  valuable  composition  must  be  form- 
ed of  knowledge  and  science.  Rhetoric  completes 
the  structure,  and  adds  the  poHsh  ;  but  &m  and  so- 
lid bodies  only  are  able  to  receive  it. 


What  is  requisite  for  the  study  of  Rhetoric  and  Belles  Lettres  ? 
—What  must  be  the  first  care  ? — AVhat  was  an  essential  principle 
among  the  ancients  ? — What  cannot  art  do  ?— How  has  oratory 
been  disgraced  ? — What  ha\e  writers  attempted  to  do  ? — AVhat  will 
be  the  result  of  such  imposture  ?— Of  what  must  the  body  and  sub- 
stance of  any  valuable  composition  be  formed  ? — What  does  rhe- 
toric do  ? — AVhat  bodies  only  are  able  to  receive  it  ? 


6 


INTRODUCTION. 


Among  tlie  learned  it  lias  long  been  a  contested, 
and  remains  still  an  undecided  question,  whether  na- 
tm-e  or  art  contribute  most  toward  excellence  in  wilt- 
ing and  discourse.  Various  may  be  the  opinions 
with  respect  to  the  manner,  in  which  art  can  most  ef- 
fectually furnish  aid  for  such  a  purpose  ;  and  it  were 
presumption  to  assert,  that  rhetorical  rules,  how  just 
soever,  are  sufficient  to  form  an  orator.  Private  ap- 
phcation  and  study,  supposing  natural  genius  to  be 
favourable,  are  certainly  superior  to  any  system  of 
public  instruction.  But,  though  rules  and  instructions 
cannot  effect  every  thing  which  is  requisite,  they 
may  be  of  considerable  use.  If  they  cannot  inspire 
genius,  they  can  give  it  direction  and  assistance.  K 
they  cannot  make  barrenness  fruitful,  they  can  cor- 
rect redundancy.  They  present  proper  models  for 
imitation  ;  they  point  out  the  principal  beauties  which 
ought  to  be  studied,  and  the  chief  faults  which  ought 
to  be  avoided,  and  consequently,  tend  to  enlighten 
taste,  and  to  conduct  genius  from  unnatural  deviations 
into  its  proper  channel.  Though  they  are  incapable 
of  producing  great  excellencies,  they  may  at  least 
serve  to  prevent  considerable  mistakes. 

In  the  education  of  youth,  no  object  has  appeared 
more  important  to  wise  men  in  every  age,  than  to  ex- 
cite in  them  an  early  relish  for  the  entertainments  of 
taste.  From  these  to  the  discharge  of  the  higher  and 
more  important  duties  of  life  the  transition  is  natural 
and  easy.  Of  those  minds  which  have  this  elegant 
and  liberal  turn,  the  most  pleasing  hopes  may  be  en- 
tertained.   On  the  contrary,  entire  insensibihty  to 


What  question  has  been  long  contested  among  the  learned  ?-- 
What  opinions  may  be  various  ? — What  would  be  presumption  to 
assert  ? — What  is  superior  to  any  system  of  instruction  ? — Are 
rules  and  instructions  of  any  use  ?— Of  what  use  are  they  ? 

In  the  education  of  youth  what  has  been  an  important  object  ? — 
How  is  the  transition  from  this  to  the  discharge  of  the  more  im- 
portant duties  of  life  ?— Of  whom  may  pleasing  hopes  be  enter- 


INTRODUCTION. 


7 


eloquence,  poetry,  or  any  of  tlie  fine  arts,  may  justly 
be  considered  as  a  bad  sjniiptom  in  youth  ;  and  sup- 
poses them  inclined  to  low  gratifications,  or  capable 
of  being  engaged  only  in  the  common  pursuits  of  life. 

Improvement  of  taste  seems  to  be  more  or  less  con- 
nected with  eveiy  good  and  virtuous  disposition. 
By  giving  frequent  exercises  to  the  tender  and  hu- 
mane passions,  a  cultivated  taste  increases  sensibili- 
ty ;  yet,  at  the  same  time,  it  tends  to  soften  the  moi^ 
violent  and  angry  emotions. 

Ingenuas  didicisse  fideliter  artes 
Emollit  mores,  nec  sinit  esse  f  eras. 

These  polished  arts  have  humaniz'd  mankind. 
Softened  the  rude  and  calmed  the  boisterous  mind. 

Poetry,  eloquence,  and  history,  continually  exhibit 
to  our  view  those  elevated  sentiments  and  high  exam- . 
pies,  which  tend  to  nourish  in  our  minds  public  spirit, 
love  of  gloiy,  contempt  of  external  fortune,  and  admi- 
ration of  everything  truly  gi-eat,  noble,  and  illus- 
trious. 


taincd  ?— What  may  he  considered  a  had  symptom  in  youth  ?— 
What  does  it  suppose  them  ? 

What  is  improvement  of  taste  more  or  less  connected  vrith  ?— 
What  is  said  of  poetry,  eloquence  and  history  ? 


[  8  ] 

LECTURE  II. 
TASTE. 

Taste  is  "the  power  of  receiving  pleasure  or  pain 
from  the  beauties  or  deformities  of  nature  and  of  art." 
It  is  a  faculty  common  in  some  degTee  to  all  men. 
Through  the  circle  of  human  narture,  nothing  is  more 
general,  than  the  relish  of  beauty  of  one  kind  or 
other ;  of  what  is  orderly,  proportioned,  grand,  har- 
monious, new,  or  sprightly.  Nor  does  there  prevail 
less  generally  a  disrelish  of  whatever  is  gi'oss,  dispro- 
portioned,  disorderly,  and  discordant.  In  children 
the  rudiments  of  taste  appear  very  early  in  a  thousand 
instances  ;  in  their  partiality  for  regular  bodies,  their 
fondness  for  pictures  and  statues,  and  their  warm  at- 
tachment to  whatever  is  new  or  astonishing.  The 
most  stupid  peasants  receive  pleasure  from  tales  and 
ballads,  and  are  delighted  with  the  beautiful  appear- 
ances of  nature  in  the  earth  and  heavens.  Even  in 
the  deserts  of  America,  w^here  human  nature  appears 
in  its  most  uncultivated  state,  the  savages  have  their 
ornaments  of  dress,  their  w^ar  and  their  death  songs, 
their  harangues  and  their  orators.  The  principles  of 
taste  must  therefore  be  deeply  founded  in  the  human 
mmd.  To  have  some  discernment  of  beauty  is  no 
less  essential  to  man,  than  to  possess  the  attributes 
of  speech  and  reason. 

Though  no  human  being  can  be  entirely  devoid  of 
this  faculty,  yet  it  is  possessed  in  very  different  de- 
grees. In  some  men  only  faint  ghmmerings  of  taste 
are  visible ;  iae  beauties  which  they  relish  are  of  the 

What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? — What  is  taste  ? — Is  it 
common  to  all  men  ? — What  do  men  relish  ? — W^hat  do  they  dis- 
relish ? — How  do  the  rudiments  of  taste  appear  in  children  ? — How 
does  taste  appear  in  peasants  ? — How  in  savages  ? — What  must  we 
conclude  therefore  ? 

How  is  this  faculty  possessed  among  men? 


TASTE. 


9 


coarsest  kind  ;  and  of  these  they  have  only  a  ^eak 
and  confused  impression  ;  while  in  others,  taste  rises 
to  an  acute  discernment,  and  a  lively  enjoyment  of  the 
most  refined  beauties. 

This  inequality  of  taste  among  men  is  to  be  ascribed 
undoubtedly  in  part,  to  the  different  frame  of  their 
natm-es  ;  to  nicer  organs,  and  more  dehcate  internal 
powers,  mth  which  sonae  are  endued  beyond  others  ; 
yet  it  is  owing  still  more  to  culture  and  education. 
Taste  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  improvable  faculties 
of  our  natm-e.  We  may  easily  be  con^dnced  of  the 
truth  of  this  assertion,  by  only  reflecting  on  that  im- 
mense superiority,  which  education  and  improvement 
give  to  ci\dlized,  above  barbarous  nations,  in  refine- 
ment of  taste  ;  and  on  the  advantage,  which  they  give 
in  the  same  nation,  to  those  who  have  studied  the  libe- 
ral arts,  above  the  rude  and  ilhterate  \'ulgar. 

Reason  and  good  sense  have  so  extensive  an  influ- 
ence on  aU  the  operations  and  decisions  of  taste,  that 
a  completely  good  taste  may  weU  be  considered,  as  a 
power  compounded  of  natiu'al  sensibility  to  beauty, 
and  of  improved  imderstanding.  To  be  satisfied  of 
this,  we  may  observe,  that  the  gTeater  part  of  the  pro- 
ductions of  genius  are  no  other  than  imitations  of  na- 
ture :  representations  of  the  characters,  actions,  or 
manners  of  men.  Now  the  pleasure  we  experience 
&om  such  imitations  or  representations,  is  founded  on 
mere  taste  ;  but  to  judge,  whether  they  may  be  pro- 
perly executed,  belongs  to "  the  understanding,  which 
compares  the  copy  with  the  original. 

In  reading,  for  instance,  the  Eneid  of  Vhgil,  a  great 
part  of  our  pleasiue  arises  from  the  proper  conduct  of 
the  plan  or  story ;  from  all  the  parts  being  joined  to- 


To  what  is  this  inequality  of  taste  to  be  ascribed  ? 
Is  taste  an  improvable  faculty  ? — IIow  may  we  be  convinced  of 
this  ? 

\Vhat  influence  do  reason  and  good  sense  have  upon  the  opera- 
tions and  decisions  of  taste  ? — How  may  we  be  satisfied  of  this  1  • 
Illustrate. 


10 


TASTE. 


gether  with  probability  and  due  connection  ;  from  tlie 
adoption  of  the  characters  from  nature,  the  corres- 
pondence of  the  sentiments  to  the  characters,  and  of 
the  style  to  the  sentiments.  The  pleasure  which  is 
derived  fi-om  a  poem  so,  conducted,  is  felt  or  enjoyed 
by  taste,  as  an  internal  sense ;  but  the  discovery  of 
tliis  conduct  in  the  poem  is  owing  to  reason ;  and 
the  more  reason  enables  us  to  discover  such  propri- 
ety in  the  conduct,  the  greater  will  be  our  pleasure. 

The  constituents  of  taste,  when  brought  to  its 
most  perfect  state,  are  two,  delicacy  and  correctness. 

Delicacy  of  taste  refers  principally  to  the  perfection 
of  that  natural  sensibility,  on  which  taste  is  founded. 
It  implies  those  finer  organs  or  powers,  which  enable 
us  to  discover  beauties  that  are  concealed  from  a  vid- 
gar  eye.  It  is  judged  of  by  the  same  marks,  that 
we  employ  in  judging  of  the  delicacy  of  an  external 
sense.  As  the  goodness  of  the  palate  is  not  tried 
by  strong  flavours,  but  by  a  mixture  of  ingi-edients, 
where,  not^vithstanding  the  confusion,  we  remain 
sensible  of  each  ;  so  delicacy  of  internal  taste  ap- 
pears, by  a  quick  and  lively  sensibility  to  its  finest, 
most  compounded,  or  most  latent  objects. 

(Correctness  of  taste  respects  the  improvement  this 
faculty  receives  through  its  connection  with  the  un- 
derstanding. A  man  of  correct  taste  is  one,  who  is 
never  imposed  on  by  counterfeit  beauties  ;  who  car- 
ries always,  in  his  own  mind,  that  standard  of  good 
sense,  which  he  employs  in  judging  of  every  thing. 
He  estimates  with  propriety  the  relative  merit  of  the 
several  beauties  which  he  meets  in  any  work  of  ge- 
nius ;  refers  them  to  their  proper  classes  ;  assigns 
the  principles  as  far  as  they  can  be  traced,  whence 
tlieir  power  of  pleasing  is  derived  ;  and  is  pleased 


How  many  are  the  constituents  of  taste  ? — What  are  they  ? 
What  doe§(  delicacy  of  taste  refer  to  principally  ? — What  does  it 
Imply  I — How  is  it  judged  of  ? 

Whzt  is  correctness  of  taste  ? — What  is  a  man  of  correct  taste  ? 


TASTE. 


11 


liiniself  precisely  in  tliat  degTee,  in  y.-McIl  lie  oiigiit, 
and  no  more. 

Taste  is  certainly  not  an  arbitrary  principle,  wliieli 
is  subject  to  the  fancy  of  every  individual,  and  %v]iicli 
adjuits  no  critenon  for  determining,  whether  it  be  true 
or  fiilse.  Its  foundation  is  the  same  in  e\'ery  liuman 
'"mind.  It  is  btiik  iipun  sentiments  and  perceptions, 
'\vTITch  are  iri-i;-i-;;iab:e  from  our  nature  ;  and  which 
generally  operate  the  same  unifonnity  as  our 

other  intellectual  principles.  AVIi.-n  tlic-'r  >L-iitiiri'"^nt3 
are  perverted  by  ignorance  or  prLjUvlioe,  they  may  be 
rectified  by  reason.  Their  sound  and  natuiral  state  is 
finally  determined  by  comparing  them  with  the  gene- 
ral taste  of  mankind.  Let  men  declaim  as  much  as 
they  please,  concerning  the  caprice  and  uncertainty 
of  taste  ;  it  is  found  by  experience,  that  there  are  beau- 
ties, which,  if  displayed  in  a  proper  light,  have  power 
to  command  lasting  and  universal  admiration.  In 
every  compo.-ition,  what  intc-rests  the  imog:ii:it:  ^  n.  and 
tc-uches  the  heart,  gives  pleasure  to  all  a„\.-  ;abl  na- 
tions. There  is  a  certain  stiing,  which  being  pro- 
perly struck,  the  human  heart  is  so  made,  as  to  ac- 
cord to  it. 

Hence  the  universal  testimony,  which  the  most 
unproved  nations  of  the  earth,  through  a  long  series 
of  ages,  have  conctirred  to  bestow  on  some  few  works 
of  genius  ;  such  as  the  Ihad  of  Homer,  and  the 
Eneid  of  Virgil.  Hence  the  authority  which  such 
vrorks  have  attained,  as  standards  of  poetical  compo- 
sition ;  since  by  them  we  are  enabled  to  collect,  what 
the  sense  of  mankind  is,  with  respect  to  those  beau- 
ties, Avhich  give   them  the  highest  pleasure,  and 

Is  taste  an  arbitrary  principle  ? 

Is  its  foundation  tlm  same  in  every  mind  ? — "What  is  it-. built  up- 
on ? — How  do  they  operate  ? — How  may  these  sentiments  be  recti- 
fied when  perTeiied  ? — IIow  is  tht-ir  sound  and  natural  state  deter- 
min-'d  ?  —  Wh-u  may  men  do  ?  — Vs'h^n  i-  louud  by  experience  ? 

"VMiat  is  udducea  in  frci'f  of  this  ? — ^Vhat  may  auihc  riry  or  pre*" 
judice  do  ?— How  arc  his  faults  diicoyertd  ?-  What  is  seen  ?— 
What  does  time  do  .' 


12 


CRITICISM. 


wliich,  tlierefore,  poetry  ouglit  to  exhibit.  Authority 
or  prejudice  may,  in  .one  age  or  country,  give  a  short- 
lived reputation  to  an  indifferent  poet,  or  a  bad  artist ; 
but  when  foreigners  or  posterity  examine  his  works, 
his  faults  are  discovered,  and  the  genuine  taste  of 
human  nature  is  seen.  Time  overthrows  the  illusionsi 
of  opinion,  but  estabhshes  the  decisions  of  nature.  i 


LECTURE  III. 

CRITICISM.— GENIUS.— PLEASURES  OF  TASTE.— 
SUBLIMITY  IN  OBJECTS. 

True  criticism  is  the  application  of  taste  and  of 
good  sense  to  the  several  fine  arts.  Its  design  is 
to  distinguish  what  is  beautiful,  and  what  is  faulty, 
in  every  performance.  From  particular  instances 
it  ascends  to  general  principles,  and  gradually  forms 
rules  or  conclusions  concerning  the  several  kinds  of 
beauty  in  works  of  genius. 

Criticism  is  an  art  founded  entirely  on  experience  ; 
on  the  observation  of  such  beauties  as  have  been 
found  to  please  mankind  most  generally.  For  ex- 
ample, Aristotle's  rules  concerning  the  unity  of  ac- 
tion in  dramatic  and  epic  composition,  were  not  first 
discovered  by  logical  reasoning,  and  then  applied  to 
poetry  ;  but  they  were  deduced  from  the  practice  of 
Homer  and  Sophocles.  They  were  founded  upon'* 
observing  the  superior  pleasure  which  we  derive 
fi'om  the  relation  of  an  action,  which  is  one  and  en- 
tire, beyond  what  we  receive  fi:om  the  relation  of 
scattered  and  unconnected  facts. 


What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ?— What  is  true  criticism  ? 
What  is  its  design  ? — How  does  it  ascend  ? — What  does  it  gradually 
form 

What  IS  criticism  founded  on  ? — Example  ? 


CRITICISM. 


13 


A  supeiior  genius,  indeed,  will  of  himself,  iinin- 
stmcted,  compose  in  such  manner  as  is  agreeable  to 
the  most  important  rules  of  criticism ;  for,  as  these 
rules  are  founded  in  nature,  nature  will  frequently 
suggest  them  in  practice.  Homer  was  acquainted 
with  no  system  of  the  art  of  poetry.  Guided  by  ge- 
nius alone,  he  composed  in  verse  a  regular  story, 
which  all  succeeding  ages  have  admu-ed.  This, 
however,  is  no  argument  against  the  usefulness  of 
criticism.  For  since  no  human  genius  is  perfect, 
there  is  no  writer  who  may  not  receive  assistance 
from  critical  observations  upon  the  beauties  and  faults 
of  those  who  have  gone  before  him.  No  rules  in- 
deed can  supply  the  defects  of  genius,  or  inspire  it, 
where  it  is  wanting;  but  they  may  often  guide  it  in- 
to its  proper  channel ;  they  may  correct  its  extrava- 
gancies, and  teach  it  the  most  just  and  proper  imi- 
tation of  nature.  Critical  rules  are  intended  chiefly 
to  point  out  the  faults,  which  ought  to  be  avoided. 
We  must  be  indebted  to  natm-e  for  the  production  of 
eminent  beauties. 

Genius  is  a  word  which  in  common  acceptation 
extends  much  further  than  to  objects  of  taste.  It 
signifies  that  talent  or  aptitude  which  we  receive  from 
nature,  in  order  to  excel  in  any  one  thing  whatever. 
A  man  is  said  to  have  a  genius  for  mathematics  as 
well  as  a  genius  for  poetry;  a  genius  for  war,  for 
TX>htics,  or  for  any  mechanical  emplojTuent. 

Genius  may  be  gTcatly  improved  by  art  and  study ; 
b  it  by  them  alone  it  cannot  be  acquired.  As  it  is  a 
higher  faculty  than  taste,  it  is  ever,  according  to  the 
common  fi-ugality  of  nature,  more  hmited  in  the 


What  is  said  of  a  superior  genius  ? — What  is  said  of  Homer  ? 
Why  is  this  no  argument  against  the  usefulness  of  criticism? — 
What  cannot  rules  do  ? — What  may  they  do  ? — What  are  they  in- 
tended for  chiefly  ?— For  what  must  we  be  indebted  to  nature  ? 

What  is  genius  ? 

How  may  it  be  improved  ?— Can  it  be  acquired  by  these  ? — How 
does  it  differ  from  taste  ?— What  persons  are  not  unfrequently  to 

2 


GENIUS. 


sphere  of  its  operations.  There  are  persons,  not 
unfrequently  to  be  met,  who  have  an  excellent  taste 
in  several  of  the  polite  arts ;  such  as  music,  poetry, 
painting,  and  eloquence ;  but  an  excellent  performer 
in  all  these  arts  is  very  seldom  found ;  or  rather 
is  not  to  be  looked  for.  A  universal  genius,  or  one 
who  is  equally  and  indifferently  inclined  toward  se- 
veral different  professions  and  arts,  is  not  likely  to 
excel  in  any.  Although  there  may  be  some  few  ex- 
ceptions, yet  in  general  it.  is  true,  that,  v/hen  tha 
mind  is  wholly  directed  toward  some  one  object  ex- 
clusively of  others,  ^here  is  the  fairest  prospect  of 
eminence  in  that,  whatever  it  may  be.  Extreme 
heat  can  be  produced  only  when  the  rays  converge 
to  a  single  point.  Young  persons  are  highly  inte- 
rested in  this  remark;  since  it  may  teach  them  to 
examine  with  care,  and  to  pursue  with  ardour,  that 
path,  which  nature  has  marked  out  for  their  pecuhar 
exertions. 

The  nature  of  taste,  the  nature  and  importance  of 
criticism,  and  the  distinction  between  taste  and  ge- 
nius, being  thus  explained ;  the  sources  of  the  plea- 
sures of  taste  shall  next  be  considered.  Here  a  very 
extensive  field  is  opened ;  no  less  than  all  the  pleasures 
of  the  imagination,  as  they  are  generally  called, 
whether  aftbrded  us  by  natural  objects,  or  by  imita- 
tions and  descriptions  of  them.  It  is  not,  however, 
necessary  to  the  pui-pose  of  the  present  work,  that  all 
these  be  examined  fully ;  the  pleasure  which  we  re- 
ceive fi'om  discourse  or  writing  being  the  principal 
object  of  them.  Our  design  is  to  give  some  opening 
into  the  pleasures  of  taste  in  general,  and  to  insist 
more  particularly  upon  sublimity  and  beauty. 


be  met  with  ?— What  is  said  of  a  tmiversal  genius  ? — When  is  there 
the  fairest  prospect  of  eminence  in  any  one  object  ? — Illustrate.— 

Vho  are  interested  in  this  remark  ? — Why  ? 
What  has  been  explained  ? — What  is  next  to  he  considered  T— 

»f  hat  field  is  here  opened  ?— What  is  not  necessary  1 — What  then  is 
the  design  of  the  author  t 


PLEASURES   OF  TASTE. 


15 


We  are  far  from  lia-^-ing  yet  attained  any  s}T;tein 
concerning  tliis  subject.  A  regular  inquiry  into  it 
was  first  attempted  by  Mr.  Addison,  in  his  essay  on 
the  Pleasures  of  tlie  Imagination.  By  Mm  these 
pleasures  are  ai'ranged  under  three  heads,  beauty, 
gi-andeur,  and  novelty.  His  speculations  on  this  sub- 
ject, if  not  i-emarkably  profound,  are  yery  beautiful 
and  entertaining;  and  he  has  the  merit  of  ha\dng 
discovered  a  track,  v^diich  -svas  before  untrodden. 
Since  his  time,  the  advances  made  in  this  part  of 
philosophical  criticism,  are  not  considerable ;  which  is 
owing,  doubtless,  to  that  thinness  and  subtilty  which 
are  discovered  to  be  properties  of  all  the  feeling's  of 
taste.  It  is  difficult  to  enumerate  the  several  objects 
which  give  pleasure  to  taste ;  it  is  more  difficult  to 
define  all  those,  which  have  been  discovered,  and  to 
range  them  in  proper  classes ;  and,  when  we  would 
proceed  further,  and  investigate  the  efficient  causes  of 
the  pleasm-e  which  we  receive  from  such  objects,  here 
we  find  ourselves  at  the  gTeatest  loss.  For  example, 
we  all  learn  by  experience,  that  some  figures  of- 
bodies  appear  more  beautiful  than  othei-s ;  on  fm-thei 
inquiry  we  discover  that  the  regularity  of  some 
»  figures,  and  the  graceful  variety  of  others,  are  the 
foundation  of  the  beauty  which  we  discern  in  them; 
but,  when  we  endeavciu'  to  go  a  step  beyond  this,  and 
inquire,  why  regularity  and  variety  produce  in  our 
minds  the  sensation  of  beauty ;  any  reason,  we  can 
assign,  is  extremely  imperfect.  Those  fii"st  principles 
of  mternal  sensation,  natm^e  appeal's  to  have  stu- 
'diously  concealed. 

It  is  some  consolation,  however,  that,  although  the 
efficient  cause  is  obscure,  the  final  cause  of  those  sen- 


What  are  we  far  from  having  attained  ?— Who  first  attempted  a 
regular  in':iuiry  into  the  subject  ?— How  did  he  range  these  plea- 
sures ' — \\  hat  is  said  of  his  speculations  T—AVhat  have  been  tae 
advances  in  this  subject  since  his  time? — What  is  it  owing  tot — 
1^  Example. 

What  Lj  said  of  the  efficient  cause  of  these  sensations  1 — What 


16 


PLEASURES  OF  TASTE. 


sations  lies  commonly  more  open ;  and  here  we  must 
observe  the  strong  impressiop.  which  the  powers  of 
taste  and  imagination  are  calculated  to  give  us  of 
the  benevolence  of  our  Creator.  By  these  powers  he 
hath  widely  enlarged  the  sphere  of  the  pleasures  of 
human  life ;  and  those  too  of  a  kind  the  most  pure 
and  innocent.  The  necessary  purposes  of  life  migh 
have  been  answered,  though  our  eenses  of  seeing  and 
hearing  had  only  served  to  distinguish  external  ob 
jects,  without  giving  us  any  of  those  refined  and 
^delicate  sensations  of  beauty  and  grandem-,  with 
which  we  are  now  so  much  delighted. 

The  pleasure,  which  arises  from  sublimity  or  gi*an- 
deur,  deserves  to  be  fuUy  considered;  because  it 
has  a  character  more  precise  and  distinctly  marked, 
than  any  other  of  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination, 
and  because  it  coincides  more  directly  with  our  main 
subject.  The  simplest  form  of  external  grandeur  is 
seen  in  the  vast  and  boundless  prospects  presented  to 
us  by  nature;  such  as  widely  extended  plains,  of 
which  the  eye  can  find  no  hmits ;  the  firmament  of 
heaven ;  or  the  boundless  expanse  of  the  ocean.  All 
vastness  produces  the  impression  of  sublimity. 
Space,  however  extended  in  length,  makes  not  so  ' 
strong  an  impression,  as  height  or  depth.  Though  a 
boundless  plain  is  a  grand  object;  yet  a  lofty  moun- 
tain to  which  we  look  up,  or  an  awful  precipice  or 
tower,  whence  we  look  down  on  objects  below,  i 
still  more  so.  The  excessive  gi^andeur  of  the  firma 
ment  arises  from  its  height,  added  to  its  boundless 
extent;  and  that  of  the  ocean,  not  fi'om  its  exten 
alone,  hut  from  the  continual  motion  and  irresistible 


of  the  final  cause  ? — What  impression  are  they  calculated  to  give  ?— 
Explain. 

What  deserves  fully  to  be  consid^^red  ?— Why  ?— Where  is  seen 
the  simplest  form  of  external  grandeur  ? — What  impression  does 
Tastness  produce? — What  is  said  of  space  1 — Examples. — What 
does  the  excessive  grandeur  of  the  firmament  arise  from  1 — What 
the  ocean —  What  is  necessary  to  grandeixr  where  space  is  con- 


SUBLIMITY  IN  OBJECTS. 


17 


force  of  that  mass  of  waters.  Wherever  space  is  eon- 
cerned,  it  is  evident  that  amphtude,  or  greatness  of 
extent,  in  one  dimension  or  other,  is  necessary  U 
gi-andenr.  Remove  all  bounds  from  any  object,  and 
you  immediately  render  it  sublime.  Hence  inlinitc- 
tpace,  endless  numbers,  and  eternal  duration,  fill  the 
mind  with  great  ideas. 

The  most  copious  source  of  subhme  ideas  seems  to 
DC  derived  from  the  exertion  of  great  power  and  force. 
Hence  the  grandeur  of  earthquakes  and  burning 
mountains ;  of  great  conflagrations ;  of  the  boisterous 
ocean ;  of  the  tempestuous  storm ;  of  thunder  and 
hghtning;  and  of  all  the  unusual  violence  of  the  ele- 
ments. A  stream  which  glides  along  gently  within 
its  banks,  is  a  beautifid  object;  but,  when  it  rushes 
down  with  the  impetuosity  and  noise  of  a  torrent,  it 
immediately  becomes  a  sublime  one.  A  race  horse 
is  viewed  with  pleasure;  but  it  is  the  war  horse, 
"  whose  neck  is  clothed  with  thunder,"  that  conveys 
grandeur  in  its  idea.  The  engagement  of  two  pow- 
erful armies,  as  it  is  the  highest  exertion  of  human 
strength,  combines  various  sources  of  the  sublime ; 
and  has  consequently  been  ev'er  considered  as  one  of 
the  most  striking  and  magnificent  spectacles  which 
can  be  either  presented  to  the  eye,  or  exhibited  to  the 
imagination  in  description. 

All  ideas  of  the  solemn  and  awful  kind,  and  even 
bordering  on  the  terrible,  tend  gi'eatly  to  assist  the 
sublime;  such  as  darkness,  solitude,  and  silence. 
The  firmament,  when  filled  with  stars,  scattered  in 
infinite  numbers  and  with  splendid  profusion,  strikes 
the  imagination  with  more  awful  gi-andeur,  than  when 


cerned? — IIo-w  do  you  render  an  object  sublime? — What  fills  the 
mind  Y-itli  great  ideas  ? 

Whence  is  the  most  copious  source  of  sublime  ideas  derived  from  ? 
— Examples. — What  is  said  of  a  stream  ? — Of  a  race  horse  1 — Of 
the  war  horse  ? — The  engagement  of  two  powerful  armies  ? 

What  tends  greatly  to  assist  the  sublime  ?— Such  as  what  !— 
Examples. 

2* 


18 


SUBLIMITY  IN  OBJECTS. 


we  behold  it  enlightened  by  all  the  splendour  of  the 
sun.  The  deep  sound  of  a  great  bell,  or  the  striking 
of  a  great  clock,  is  at  any  time  gTand  and  awful ;  but, 
when  heard  amid  the  silence  and  stillness  of  night, 
they  become  doubly  so.  Darkness  is  very  generally 
applied  for  adding  sublimity  to  all  our  ideas  of  the 
Deity.  "  He  maketh  darkness  his  pavilion ;  he  dwell 
eth  in  the  thick  cloud."    Thus  Milton — 

 How  oft  amid 

Thick  clouds  and  dark  does  Hf  aven's  all  riiling  Sire 
Choose  to  reside,  his  glory  unobscured  ; 
.  And  with  the  naajesty  of  darkness  round 
'     Circles  his  throne  

Obscurity  is  favourable  to  the  sublime.  The  de- 
scriptions given  us  of  appearances  of  supernatural 
beings,  carry  some  sublimity ;  though  the  conception, 
which  they  afford  us,  be  confused  and  indistinct. 
Their  sublimity  arises  from  the  ideas,  which  they  al- 
ways convey,  of  superior  power  and  might  connected 
with  awful  obscurity.  !No  ideas,  it  is  evident,  are  so 
subhme,  as  those  derived  from  the  Supreme  Bemg, 
the  most  unknown,  yet  the  greatest  of  all  objects; 
the  infinity  of  whose  nature,  and  the  eternity  of 
whose  duration,  adde(l  to  the  omnipotence  of  his 
power,  though  they  surpass  our  conceptions,  yet  exalt 
them  to  the  highest. 

Disorder  is  also  very  compatible  with  grandeur ; 
nay, .  frequently  heightens  it.  Few  things  which 
are  exactly  regular  and  methodical,  appear  subhme. 
We  see  the  hmits  on  every  side ;  we  feel  ourselves 
confined ;  there  is  no  room  for  any  considerable  ex 
ertion  of  the  mind.  Though  exact  proportion  of 
parts  enters  often  into  the  beautiful,  it  is  much  dis- 
regarded in  the  sublime.  A  great  mass  of  rocks, 
thrown  together  by  the  hand  of  nature  with  wildness 
and  confusion,  strikes  the  mind  with  more  grandeur, 

What  is  said  of  obscurity  ?— Of  the  Supreme  Being  ? 
What  is  said  of  disorder  ^—Example.  • 


SUBLIMITY  IX  OBJECTS. 


1& 


thau  if  they  liacl  been  adjusted  to  each  other  wi:h  the 
most  accurate  spnmetry. 

There  yet  remains  one  class  of  sublime  objects  to 
be  mentioned,  which  may  be  termed  the  mjral  or 
sentimental  subhme,  aiismg  from  certain  ex.^rtions 
of  the  mind ;  frrjm  certain  atfections  an^l  actions  of 
our  fellow  creatm-es.  These  wiU  be  found  to  be  chiefly 
of  that  class  which  coni'-s  under  the  name  of  magna- 
nimity or  heroism,  anii  th<-y  produce  an  eifect  veiy 
similar  to  what  is  produced  by  a  view  of  grand  ob- 
jects in  natm-e,  fihing  the  mmd  with  admiration,  and 
raising  it  above  itself.  Wherever  in  some  critical  and 
dangerous  situation,  we  behold  a  man  micommonly 
intrepid,  and  resting  solely  upon  himself;  superior  to 
passion  and  to  fear ;  animated  by  some  great  princi- 
ple to  contempt  of  popular  opinion,  of  selhsh  interest, 
of  dangers,  or  of  death ;  we  are  there  siruck  vdth  a 
sense  of  the  subhme.  Thus  Porus,  when  trik^n  by 
Alexander,  after  a  gaUant  defence,  being  asked  in 
what  manner  he  would  be  treated,  answered,  "  Like  a 
Mng ;"  and  Caesar,  chiding  the  pilot,  who  was  afraid 
to  set  out  with  him  iri  a  storm,  Quid  times  ? 
Cssarem  vehis,"  are  good  instances  of  the  senti- 
mental subhme. 

The  sublime  'in  natural,  and  in  moral  objects,  is 
presented  to  us  hi  one  \"iew,  and  compared  together, 
in  the  foUowing  beautifid  passage  of  Akenside's 
Pleastu'es  of  the  Imagination. 

Look  then  abroad  through  nature  to  the  range 
Of  planets,  suns,  and  adamantine  spheres. 
Wheeling,  unshaken,  through  the  void  immense  ! 
And  speak.  0  man  ;  does  this  capacious  fccene, 
With  half  that  kindling  majesty,  dilate 
Thv  strong  conception,  as  when  Brutus  rose 
Refulgent  from  the  stroke  of  Ctesar's  fate 
Amid  the  crowd  of  patriots  ;  and  his  arm 


.  "^Tiat  is  the  next  class  of  sublime  objects  to  be  mentioned?— 
Of  what  class  will  they  be  found  chiefly  !— What  effect  do  they  pro- 
duce  ? 

Examples. — Cite  the  passage  from  Akenside. 


20 


SUBLIMITY  IN  OBJECTS. 


Aloft  extending,  like  eternal  Jove, 

When  guilt  brings  down  the  thunder,  call'd  aloud 

On  Tully's  name,  and  shook  his  crimson  steel, 

And  bade  the  father  of  his  country  hail  1 

For  lo  !  the  tyrant  prostrate  on  the  dust  ! 

And  Rome  again  is  free. 

It  lias  been  imagined  by  an  ingenious  author,  tliat 
terror  is  the  source  of  the  subhme ;  and  that  no  ob- 
jects have  this  character,  but  such  as  produce  impres 
sions  of  pain  and  danger.  Many  terrible  objects  are 
indeed  highly  sublime ;  nor  does  grandeur  refuse  alli- 
ance with  the  idea  of  danger.  But  the  subhme  does 
not  consist  wholly  in  modes  of  danger  and  pain. 
In  many  grand  objects,  there  is  not  the  least  coinci- 
dence with  terror ;  as  in  the  magnificent  prospect  of 
widely  extended  plains,  and  of  the  starry  firmament ; 
or  in  the  moral  dispositions  and  sentiments  which  we 
communicate  with  high  admiration.  In  inany  pain- 
ful and  terrible  objects  also  it  is  evident,  there  is  no 
sort  of  grandeur.  The  amputation  of  a  limb,  or  the 
bite  of  a  snake,  is  in  the  highest  degree  terrible ;  but 
they  are  destitute  of  all  claim  whatever  to  subhmity. 
It  seems  just  to  allow,  that  mighty  force  or  power, 
whether  attended  by  terror  or  not,  whether  employed 
in  protecting  or  alarming  us,  has  a  better  title,  than 
any  thing  yet  mentioned,  to  be  the  fundamental 
quality  of  the  sublime.  There  appears  to  be  no  sub- 
lime object,  into  the  idea  of  which  strength  and  forcfi 
either  enter  not  directly,  or  are  not  at  least  inti 
mately  associated,  by  conducting  our  thoughts  tc 
some  astonishing  power  as  concerned  in  the  produc 
tion  of  the  object. 


What  has  been  imagined  by  an  ingenious  author?— What  is  said 
in  respect  to  ihia  sentiment ! — What  is  said  of  mighty  force  and 
power  1 


[21] 


LECTURE  IV. 
SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING. 

The  foiiliclation  of  the  sublime  in  composition  must 
always  be  laid  in  the  nature  of  tlie  object  described. 
Unless  it  be  such  an  object,  as,  if  presented  to  our 
sight,  if  exhibited  to  us  in  reahty,  would  excite  ideas 
of  that  elevating,  that  awful  and  magnificent  Mnd, 
which  we  call  sublime;  the  description,  however 
finely  drawn,  is  not  entitled  to  be  placed  under  this 
class.  This  excludes  all  objects,  which  are  merely 
beautiful,  gay,  or  elegant.  Besides,  the  object  must 
not  only  in  itself  be  subhme,  but  it  must  be  placed 
before  us  in  such  a  light,  as  is  best  calculated  to  give  - 
us  a  clear  and  fall  impression  of  it ;  it  must  be  de- 
scribed with  strength,  conciseness,  and  simphcity. 
This  depends  chiefly  upon  the  lively  impression, 
which  the  poet  or  orator  has  of  the  object,  which  he 
exhibits ;  and  upon  his  being  deeply  afiected  and  ani- 
mated by  the  sublime  idea  which  he  would  convey. 
If  his  own  feehng  be  languid,  he  can  never  inspire 
his  reader  w^th  any  strong  emotion.  Instances,  which 
on  this  subject  are  extremely  necessary,  will  clearly  • 
show  the  importance  of  all  these  requisites. 

It  is  chiefly  among  ancient  authors,  that  we  are  to 
look  for  the  most  striking  instances  of  the  subhme 
The  early  ages  of  the  world,  and  the  uncultivated 
state  of  society,  were  peculiarly  favourable  to  tha 
emotions  of  subhmity.    The  genius  of  men  was  then 


What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

In  ■what  must  the  foundation  of  the  sublime  iu  composition  be 
laid  1 — What  must  be  the  object ' — What  objects  does  this  exclude  • 
— How  placed  before -us? — How  described? — What  does  this  de» 
pend  on  ? 

Where  must  we  look  for  instances  chiefly  of  the  sublime? — 
What  were  favourable  to  sublime  emotions  .' — W^hat  was  then  the 


22 


SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING. 


very  prone  to  admiration  and  astonishment.  Meet- 
ing continually  new  and  strange  objects,  tlieir  imar 
gination  was  kept  glowing,  and  their  passions  were 
often  raised  to  the  utmost.  They  thought  and  ex- 
pressed themselves  boldly  without  restraint.  In  the 
progress  of  society,  the  genius  and  manners  of  men 
Lave  undergone  a  change  more  favourable  to  accu- 
racy, than  to  strength  or  sublimity.  Of  all  writings, 
ancient  or  modern,  the  sacred  scriptures  afford  the 
most  striking  instances  of  the  subhme.  In  them  the 
descriptions  of  the  Supreme  Being  are  wonderfully 
noble,  both  from  the  grandeur  of  the  object,  and  the 
manner  of  representing  it.  What  an  assemblage  of 
awful  and  sublime  ideas  is  presented  to  us  in  that  pas- 
sage of  the '  eighteenth  Psalm,  where  an  appearance 
of  the  Almighty  is  described !  "  In  my  distress  I  call- 
ed upon  the  Lord ;  he  heard  my  voice  out  of  his 
temple,  and  my  cry  came  before  him.  Then  the 
earth  shook  and  trembled ;  the  foundations  of  the 
hills  were  moved ;  because  he  was  wroth.  He  bowed 
the  heavens  and  came  down,  and  darkness  was  under 
his  feet ;  and  he  did  ride  upon  a  cherub,  and  did  fly ; 
yea,  he  did  fly  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind.  He 
made  darkness  his  secret  place ;  his  pavilion  round 
about  him  were  dark  waters  and  thick  clouds  of  the 
#  sky."  The  circumstances  of  darkness  and  terror,  are 
here  applied  with  propriety  and  success,  for  heighten- 
ing the  sublime. 

The  celebrated  instance,  given  by  Longinus,  from 
Hoses,  "  God  said,  let  there  be  light;  and  there  was 
hght,"  belongs  to  the  true  sublime ;  and  its  sublimity 
ai'ises  from  the  strong  conception  it  conveys,  of  an 


genius  of  men  T— Meeting  continually  with  what  ?— How  did  they 
think  and  express  themselves  ? — vvhat  has  taken  place  in  the  pro- 
gress of  society  ? — What  affords  the  most  striking  instances  of  the 
sublime? — What  is  said  of  the  descriptions  of  the  Supremo  Being? 
—  What  example  is  presented  in  the  ISth  Psalm  ?— What  peculiar 
cixcurastances  here  heighten  the  sublime  ? 

What  is  the  celebrated  instance  given  by  Longinus  from  Moses  I 


SUBLIMITY  IN-  WRITING. 


23 


effort  of  power,  producing  its  effect,  with  the  utmost 
speed  and  facihty.  A  similar  thought  is  magnificent- 
ly expanded,  in  the  following  passage  of  Isaiah : 
chap.  xxiv.  24.  37,  28.  "Thus  saith  the  Lord,  thy 
Redeemer,  and  he  that  formed  thee  from  the  womb : 
I  am  the  Lord,  that  maketh  aU  things ;  that  strttcheth 
forth  the  heavens  alone ;  that  spreadeLh  abroad  th 
earth  by  myself ;  that  saith  to  the  deep,  be  dry,  and 
I  will  dry  up  thy  rivers;  that  saith  to  C}tus,  he  is 
my  sheplierd,  and  shall  perfonn  all  my  pleasure; 
even  sapng  to  Jerusalem,  thou  shalt  be  built ;  and  to 
the  temple,  thy  foundation  shall  be  laid." 

Homer  has  in  all  ages  been  universaUy  admhed  for 
subhmity ;  and  he  is  indebted  for  much  of  his  gran- 
deur, to  that  native  and  unaffected  simphcity,  which 
characterizes  his  manner.  His  descripfions  of  conflict- 
ing armies ;  the  spirit,  the  fire,  the  rapidity,  ^^"hich  he 
throws  into  his  battles,  present  to  every  reader  of  the 
IHad,  frequent  instances  of  sublime  writhig.  The 
majesty  of  his  warlike  scenes,  is  often  heightened  in  a 
high  degTce,  by  the  introduction  of  the  gods.  In  the 
twentieth  book,  where  all  the  gods  take  part  in  the 
engagement,  according  as  they  severally  favour  either 
the  Grecians  or  the  Trojans,  the  poet  appears  to  put 
forth  one  of  his  highest  efforts,  and  the  description 
rises  into  the  most  awful  magnificence.  All  nature 
appeal's  in  commotion.  Jupiter  thunders  in  the  hea- 
vens ;  Neptune  strikes  the  earth  with  his  trident ;  the 
ships,  the  city,  and  the  mountauis  shake ;  the  earth 
trembles  to  its  centre ;  Pluto  starts  from  his  throne, 
fearing,  lest  the  secrets  of  the  infernal  regions  should 
be  laid  open  to  the  view  of  mortals.  We  shall  trans- 
cribe Mr.  Pope's  translation  of  this  passage ;  which, 
though  inferior  to  the  original,  is  highly  animated  and 
subhme. 


— ^^Tiat  does  this  sublimity  arise  from  ? — What  is  the  exampifl 
from  Isaiah  ? 

What  is  said  of  Homer  ?— To  what  is  he  indebted  for  much  of 


24 


SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITlNa. 


But,  when  the  powers  descending  swell'd  the  flight, 
Then  tumult  rose,  fierce  rage,  and  pale  affright. 
Now  through  the  tremhling  shores  Minerva  calls, 
And  now  she  thunders  from  the  Grecian  walls. 
Mars,  hovering  o'er  his  Troy,  his  terror  shrouds, 
In  gloomy  tempests,  and  a  night  of  clouds  ; 
Mow  through  each  Trojan  heart  he  fury  pours 
With  voice  divine,  from  Ilion's  topmost  towers  ; 
Above  the  sire  of  gods  his  thunder  rolls, 
And  peals  on  peals  redoubled  rend  the  poles. 
Beneath,  stern  Neptune  shakes  the  solid  ground. 
The  forests  wave,  the  mountains  nod  around  ; 
Through  all  her  summits  tremble  Ida's  woods, 
And  from  their  sources  boil  her  hundred  floods  : 
Troy's  turrets  totter  on  the  rocking  plain, 
And  the  toss'd  navies  beat  the  heaving  main  ; 
Deep  in  the  dismal  region  of  the  dead 
The  infernal  monarch  rear'd  his  horrid  head, 
Leap'd  from  his  throne,  lest  Neptune's  arm  should  lay 
His  dark  dominions  open  to  the  day. 
And  pour  in  light  on  Pluto's  drear  abodes, 
Abhorr'd  by  men,  and  dreadful  e'en  to  gods. 
/  Such  wars  the  immortals  wage  ;  such  horrors  rend 

The  world's  vast  concave,  when  the  gods  contend. 

Conciseness  and  simplicity  wiW  ever  found  es- 
sential to  sublime  writing.  Simplicity  is  properly 
opposed  to  studied  and  profuse  ornament ;  and  con- 
ciseness to  superfluous  expression.  It  will  easily 
appear,  why  a  defect  either  in  conciseness  or  simpli- 
city, is  peculiarly  hurtful  to  the  subhme.  The  emo- 
tion, excited  in  the  mind  by  some  great  or  noble  ob- 
ject, raises  it  considerably  above  its  common  pitch.  A 
species  of  enthusiasm  is  produced,  extremely  pleasing, 
while  it  lasts ;  but  the  mind  is  tending  every  moment 
to  sink  into  its  ordinary  state.  When  an  author  has 
brought  us,  or  is  endeavouring  to  bring  us  into  this 
state,  if  he  multiply  words  unnecessarily ;  if  he  deck 
the  sublime  object  on  all  sides  with  ghttering  ornar 
ments;  nay,  if  he  throw  in  any  one  decoration, 
which  falls  in  the  least  below  the  principal  image ; 
that  moment  he  changes  the  key ;  he  relaxes  the  ten- 
sion of  the  mind ;  the  strength  of  the  feehng  is  emas- 


his  grandeur  ?— Examples.— Cite  the  passage  from  Pope's  translation 
of  the  Iliad  ? 

What  is  essential  to  sublime  writing  7 — What  is  simplicity  opposed 
to  What  conciseness  I— Show  how  a  defect  either  in  conciseness 
or  simplicity  is  peculiarly  hurtful  to  the  sublime. 


SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING, 


2a 


culated ;  the  beautiful  may  remain ;  but  tlie  sublime 
is  extinguished.  Homer's  description  of  the  nod  of 
Jupiter,  as  shaking*  the  heavens,  has  been  admired  in 
all  ages,  as  wonderfully  sublime.  Literally  translated, 
it  runs  thus  :  "  He  spoke,  and  bending  his  sable  brows, 
gave  the  a^vful  nod ;  while  he  shook  the  celestial  locks 
of  his  immortal  head,  all  Ol^mipus  was  shaken."  Mr. 
Pope  translates  it  thus : 

He  spoke  ;  and  awful  bends  his  sable  brows, 
Shakes  his  ambrosial  curls,  and  gives  the  nod  ; 
The  stamp  of  fate,  and  sanction  of  a  God  ; 
High  heaven  with  trembling  the  dread  signal  took, 
And  aU  Olympus  to  its  centre  shook. 

The  image  is  expanded,  and  attempted  to  be  beau- 
tified ;  but  in  reality  it  is  weakened.  The  third  line, 
"  The  stamp  of  fate,  and  sanction  of  a  God,"  is  en- 
tirely expletive,  and  introduced  only  to  fill  up  the 
rhyme ;  for  it  interrups  the  description,  and  clogs  the 
image.  For  the  same  reason  Jupiter  is  represented, 
as  shaking  his  locks,  before  he  gives  the  nod ;  "  shakes 
his  ambrosial  curls,  and  gives  the  nod ;"  which  is  tri- 
fling and  insignificant;  whereas  in  the  original  the 
shaking  of  his  hair  is  the  consequence  of  his  nod,  and 
makes  a  happy  picturesque  chcumstance  in  the  de- 
scription. 

The  boldness,  freedom,  and  variety  of  our  blank 
verse  are  infinitely  more  propitious  than  rhyme,  to 
all  kinds  of  sublime  poetry.  The  fullest  proof  of  this 
is  afiJ'orded  by  Milton ;  an  author,  whose  genius  led 
him  peculiarly  to  the  sublime.  The  first  and  second 
books  of  Paradise  Lost  are  continued  examples  of  it. 
Take,  for  instance,  the  following  noted  description 
Satan,  after  his  fall,  appearing  at  the  head  of  his  in- 
fernal hosts. 

 He,  above  the  rest, 

In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent, 
Stood,  like  a  tower  ;  his  form  had  not  yet  lost 
All  her  original  brightness,  nor  appear'd 
Less,  than  Archangel  ruin'd,  and  the  excess. 

What  is  said  of  blank  verse  ? — What  proof  is  afforded  of  thlst— 
What  are  examples  of  it  ? — Example. — Remarks. 

3 


26 


SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING. 


Of  glory  obscured  ;  as  when  the  sun  new  risen, 

Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air, 

Shorn  of  hi?  beams  ;  or,  from  behind  the  moon, 

In  dim  eclipse,  disastrous  twilight  sheds 

On  half  the  nations,  and  with  fear  of  change 

Perplexes  monarchs.    Darken 'd  so,  yet  shone 

Above  them  all  the  Archangel. 

Here  various  sources  of  the  sublime  are  joined  to- 
gether; the  principal  object  superlatively  great;  a 
high,  superior  nature,  fahen  indeed,  but  raising  itself 
against  distress ;  the  grandeur  of  the  principal  object 
heightened  by  connecting  it  with  so  noble  an  idea,  as 
that  of  the  sun  suffering  an  eclipse  ;  this  picture, 
shaded  with  all  those  images,  of  change  and  trouble, 
of  darkness  and  terror,  which  coincide  so  exquisitely 
with  the  sublime  emotion ;  and  the  whole  expressed 
in  a  style  and  versification  easy,  natural,  and  simple, 
but  iTiagnificent. 

Beside  simplicity  and  conciseness,  strength  is  essen- 
tially necessary  to  sublime  writing.  Strength  of  de- 
scription proceeds,  in  a  great  measure,  from  concise- 
ness; but  it  implies  something  more,  namely,  a  judi- 
cious choice  of  circumstances  in  the  description  ;  such 
as  will  exhibit  the  object  in  its  full  and  most  striking 
point  of  view.  For,  every  object  has  several  faces, 
by  which  it  may  be  presented  to  us,  according  to  the 
circumstances  with  which  we  sunmmd  it ;  and  it  will 
appear  superlatively  sublime,  or  not,  in  proportion  as 
these  circumstances  are  happily  chosen,  and  of  a  sub- 
lime kind.  In  this,  the  great  art  of  the  writer  con- 
sists ;  and  indeed  the  principal  difficulty  of  sublime 
description.  If  the  description  be  too  general  and 
divested  of  circumstances,  the  object  is  shown  in 
ft  faint  Hght,  and  makes  a  feeble  impression,  or  no  im- 
pression, on  the  reader.  At  the  same  time,  if  any 
trivial  or  improper  circumstances  bo  mingled,  the 
whole  is  degraded. 


Besides  simplicity.  &c.  what  next  is  necessary  to  sublime  writing  ! 
—What  does  strength  of  description  proceed  from  in  a  great  meas- 
Su:e  ? — What  does  it  imply  ?— Illustrate. 


SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.  21 

The  nature  of  that  emotion,  wliieli  is  aimed  at  by 
sublime  description,  admits  no  mediocrity,  and  cannot 
subsist  in  a  lyjiMl.^  state;  but  must  eiilier  highly  trans- 
port us  ;  or.  ii'  unsuccessful  in  the  execution,  leave  us 
exceedingly  disguste'h  "We  attempt  to  rise  with  the 
^\Titer ;  the  hnagination  is  awakened,  and  put  upon 
the  sti'etch  ;  but  it  ought  to  be  supported ;  and,  n  in 
the  midst  of  its  effort  it  be  deseited  unexpectedly,  it 
falls  with  a  painful  shock.  When  Milton,  in  his  bat- 
tie  of  the  angels.  d--:i  ibes  them,  as  teaiing  up  moun- 
tains, and  throwing  ilv.-ui  at  one  another ;  there  are 
in  his  description,  as  iMr.  Addison  has  remarked,  no 
ch'cumstanecS;  but  vrhat  are  truly  sublime  : 

From  their  foundations  loos'ning  to  and  fro, 
They  pluck" d  the  seated  hills  wiih  aU  their  load, 
Kocks,  waters. woods  :  {ind  by  the  shaejy  tops 
Uplifting  bore  them  with  their  hanis.  ■ 

This  idea  of  the  giants  throwing  the  motmtains, 
Trhich  is  in  itself  so  o-ran  ;1.  Claudian  rendei-s  burlesque 
and  ridicuLjUi.  by  tlie  single  circtimstance  of  one  of 
his  giants,  vriili  the  mountain  Ida  upon  his  shoulders, 
and  a  river,  which  flowed  from  the  mountain,  running 
down  the  giant's  back,  as  he  held  it  up  in  that  pos- 
ture. A^irgil.  in  his  description  of  Mount  Etna,  i^ 
guiky  of  a  slight  inaccuracy  of  this  kind.  After 
several  magniliijcnt  imau':^--  the  poet  concludes  with 
personityhig  the  mountain  under  this  figure, 

 Eructans  viscera  cum  gemitu  "  

"belching  up  its  bowels  ^^^th  a  gi'oan  which,  by 
making  the  mountain  resemble  a  sick  or  druuken 
persou,  degTades  the  majesty  of  tlie  description.  The 
dL'iiasing  effect  of  this  idea  will  appear  in  a  stronger 
hgut,  h'om  observing  what  figure  it  makes  in  a  poem 
of  Sir  Richard  Blackmore ;  who,  through  an  extra- 


"What  admits  of  no  mediocrity  ? — Illustrate. — Example. 

How  does  Claudian  render  this  ridic'.ilous  .' — How  has  Virgil  been 
guilty  of  an  inacctiracy  of  this  kind  ? — How  does  this  aLso  appear  in 
a  poem  by  Sir  E,.  Blackmore  '> 


28 


SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING. 


vagant  pen-ei-sity  of  taste,  selected  it  for  the  principal 
circumstance  in  his  description ;  and  thereby,  as  Dr. 
Arbiithnot  humourously  observes,  represented  the 
raoi/rLcain  as  in  a  fit  of  the  cholic. 

Etna  and  all  the  hurniag  mountains  find 
Their  kindled  stores,  with  inbred  storms  of  -wind, 
Elo-yn  up  to  rage,  and  roaring  out  complain, 
As  torn  with  inwar  J  gripe'j  and  tortviring  pain  ; 
Lahotvring.  they  cast  their  dreadful  vomit  round, 
And  with  'iheir  melted  bowels  spread  the  ground 

Such  instances  show  how  much  the  sublime  de- 
:iends  upon  a  proper  selection  of  circumstances ;  and 
with  how  great  care  every  circumstance  must  be 
avoided,  which,  by  approaching  in  the  smallest  degree 
to  the  mean,  or  even  to  the  gay  or  trifling,  changes 
the  tone  of  the  emotion. 

What  is  commonly  called  the  sublime  style,  is  for 
the  most  part  a  very  bad  one,  and  has  no  relation 
whatever  to  the  true  sublime.  Writers  are  apt  to 
imagine,  that  splendid  words,  accumulated  epithets, 
and  a  certain  swelling  kind  of  expression,  by  rising 
above  what  is  customary  or  vulgar,  constitutes  the  sub- 
Hme ;  yet  nothing  is  in  reality  more  false.  In  genu- 
ine instances  of  sublime  writing,  nothing  of  this  kind 
appears.  "  God  said,  let  there  be  light,  and  there  was 
light.  This  is  striking  and  sublime,  but  put  it  into 
what  is  commonly  called  the  sublime  style;  "The 
Sovereign  Arbiter  of  nature,  by  the  potent  energy  of 
a  single  word,  commanded  the  light  to  exist ;"  and,  as 
Boileau  justly  observed,  the  style  is  indeed  raised,  but 
the  thought  is  degraded.  In  general,  it  may  be  ob- 
served, that  the  sublime  Hes  in  the  thought,  not  in 
the  expression ;  and,  when  the  thought  is  really  no- 
ble, it  will  generally  clothe  itself  in  a  native  majesty 
of  language. 

What  do  such  instances  show  ? 

What  is  said  of  what  is  commonly  called  the  sublime  style  ? — 
What  are  writers  apt  to  imagine  ? — Is  this  filse  ? — Does  this  appear 
in  genuine  instances  of  sublime  writing  ? — Examples. — Remarkis. — ■ 
la  general,  where  does  the  sublime  lie  ? 


BEAUTY. 


29 


Tlie  faults,  opposite  to  the  sublime,  are  principally 
two,  the  frigid  and  the  bombast.  The  fi-igid  consists 
in  degrading  An  object  or  sentiment,  which  is  sublime 
in  itselt^  bj  a  mean  conception  of  it ;  or  by  a  weak,-| 
low,  or  puerile  description  of  it.  This  betrays  entire  ^ 
absence,  or,  at  least,  extreme  poverty  of  genius.  The' 
boniljast  lies  in  forcing  a  common  or  trivial  object  out 
of  its  rank,  and  in  labouring  to  raise  it  mto  the  sub- 
hme ;  or,  in  attempting  to  exalt  a  sublime  object  be-  / 
yond  all  natm-al  bounds. 


LECTURE  Y. 

BEAUTY  AXD  OTHER  PLEASURES  OF  TASTE. 

Beautt,  next  to  sublmiity,  affords  the  highest  plea- 
sm-e  to  the  imagination.  The  emotion  which  it  raises 
is  easily  distinguished  from  that  of  subhmity.  It  is 
of  a  calmer  kind;  more  gentle  and  soothing;  does 
not  elevate  the  mind  so  much,  but  produces  a  plea=i- 
ing  serenity.  Subhmity  excites  a  feehng,  too  violent 
to  be  lasting ;  the  pleasm-e  proceeding  from  beauty, 
admits  longer  duration.  It  extends  also  to  a  much 
gTeater  variety  of  objects  than  sublimity  ;  to  a  variety 
indeed  so  great,  that  the  sensations  which  beautiful 
objects  excite,  differ  exceedingly,  not  in  degree  only, 
but  also  in  kind,  from  each  other.  Hence  no  word 
is  used  in  a  more  undetermined  signification  than 
beauty.  It  is  apphed  to  almost  every  external  ol>" 
ject,  which  pleases  the  eye  or  the  ear;  to  many  of 
the  graces  of  writing;  to  several  dispositions  of  the 
mind;   nay,  to  some  objects  of  abstract  science. 


What  are  the  faults  opposite  to  the  fublime  1 — What  does  the  frigid 
consist  in  ?— What  does  this  betray  ?— In  what  does  the  bombast 
lie? 

What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

Wliat  is  said  of  beauty  as  one  of  the  sources  of  the  pleasurea  of 
taste! 

3* 


30 


BEAUTY  AND  OTHER 


We  speak  frequently  of  a  beautiful  tree  or  flower ;  a 
beautiful  poem ;  a  beautiful  character ;  and  a  beauti- 
ful theorem  in  mathematics.  I 

Colour  seems  to  afford  the  simplest  instance  of 
beauty.  Association  of  ideas,  it  is  probable,  has  some 
influence  on  the  pleasure,  which  we  receive  froii 
colours.  Green,  for  example,  may  appear  more  beai> 
tiful,  from  being  connected  in  our  ideas  with  rural 
scenes  and  prospects;  white,  with  innocence;  blue, 
with  the  serenity  of  the  sky.  Independently  of  asso- 
ciations of  this  sort,  all  that  we  can  f^irther  observe 
respecting  colours  is,  that  those,  chosen  for  beauty,  are 
commonly  delicate,  rather  than  glaring.  Such,  are 
the  feathers  of  several  kinds  of  birds,  the  leaves  of 
flowers,  and  the  fine  variations  of  colours  shown  by 
the  sky,  at  the  rising  and  setting  of  the  sun. 

Figure  opens  to  us  forms  of  beauty  moi-e  complex 
and  divers&ed.  Regidarity  first  offers,  itself  as  a 
source  of  beauty.  By  a  regular  figure  is  meant  one, 
which  we  perceive  to  be  formed  according  to  some 
certain  rule,  and  not  left  arbitrary  or  loose  in  the  con- 
sti'uction  of  its  parts.  Thus  a  circle,  a  square,  a  trian- 
gle, or  a  hexagon,  gives  pleasure  to  the  eye  by  its 
regularity,  as  a  beautiful  figure ;  yet  a  certain  grace- 
ful variety  is  found  to  be  a  much  more  powerful  prin- 
ciple of  beauty.  Regularity  seems  to  appear  beautiful 
to  us  chiefly,  if  not  entirely,  on  account  of  its  sug- 
gesting the  ideas  of  fitness,  propriety  and  use,  which 
have  always  a  more  intimate  connection  with  orderly 
and  proportioned  forms,  than  those  wliich  appear  not 
constructed  according  to  any  certain  rule.  Nature, 
who  is  the  most  graceful  artist,  hath,  in  all  her  orna- 
mental works,  pursued  variety  with  an  apparent  neg- 
lect of  reg\ilarity.  Cabinets,  doors,  and  windows  are 
made  after  a  regular  fonn,  in  cubes  and  parallelograms 


How  does  colour  afford  an  instance  of  beauty 
Hf>w  does  figure  i — Examples 


'—Examples. 


PLEASURES  OF  TASTE. 


31 


v^ith  exact  proportion  of  parts  ;  and  thus  formed  they 
please  the  eye,  for  this  just  reason,  that,  being  works 
of  use,  they  are  by  such  figures  better  adapted  to  the 
ends  for  which  tliey  were  designed.  But  plants,  flow- 
ers, and  leaves  are  full  of  variety  and  divei-sity.  A 
straight  canal  is  an  insipid  figure,  when  compared 
with  the  meandei-s  of  a  river.  Cones  and  pyramids 
have  their  degi-ee  of  beauty;  but  trees,  growing  in 
theu'  natural  wilderness,  have  infinitely  more  beauty 
than  when  tiimmed  into  pp-amids  and  cones.  The 
apartments  of  a  house  must  be  disposed  with  regu- 
larity for  the  convenience  of  its  inhabitants ;  but  a 
garden,  which  is  intended  merely  for  beauty,  would 
be  extremely  disgusting,  if  it  had  as  much  uniformity 
and  order  as  a  dwelling  house. 

Motion  affords  another  source  of  beauty,  distinct 
from  figure.  Motion  of  itself  is  pleasing ;  and  bodies 
in  motion  are,  "  casteris  paiibus,"  universally  prefeiTed 
to  those  at  rest.  Only  gentle  motion,  however,  be- 
longs to  the  beautiful ;  for  when  it  is  swift,  or  very 
powerful,  such  as  that  of  a  toiTent,  it  partakes  of  the 
sublime.  The  motion  of  a  bhd  gliding  through  the 
air  is  exquisitely  beautiful ;  but  the  swiftness  with 
which  lightning  darts  through  the  skv,  is  magnificent 
and  astonishing.  Here  it  is  necessary  to  observe,  that 
the  sensations  of  sublime  and  beautiful  are  not  always 
distinguished  by  very  distant  boundaries ;  but  are 
capable  m  many  mstances  of  approaching  towards 
each  other.  Thus,  a  gentle  running  stream  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  objects  in  nature ;  but  as  it  swells 
gradually  into  a  great  river,  the  beautiful  by  degTees 
is  lost  in  the  sublime.  A  young  tree  is  a  beautiful 
object;  a  spreading  ancient  oak  is  a  venerable  and 
subKme  one.  To  return,  however,  to  the  beauty  of 
motion,  it  will  be  found  to  hold  very  generally,  that 
motion  in  a  straight  line  is  not  so  beautiful,  as  in  a 


What  affords  another  source  of  beauty,  distinct  from  figure!— 
Wiat  is  necessary  to  be  observed  ? 


32 


BEAUTY  AND  OTHER 


waving  direction ;  and  motion  upward  is  commonly 
more  pleasing  than  motion  downward.    The  easy, 
curling  motion  of  flame  and  smoke  is  an  object  sin- 
gulaiiy  agreeable.  Hogaith  observes  very  ingeniously, 
that  all  the  common  and  necessary  motions  for  the  , 
business  of  life,  are  performed  in  straight  or  plain'*; 
lines;  but  that  all  the  graceful  and  ornamental  move-^ 
ments  are  made  in  curve  hues ;  an  observation  worthy 
of  the  attention  of  those  who  study  the  grace  of  ges- 
ture and  action. 

Colour,  iigm-e,  and  motion,  though  separate  princi 
pies  of  beauty,  yet  in  many  beautiful  objects  meet  to- 
gether, and  thereby  render  the  beauty  greater  and 
more  complex.  Thus  in  flowers,  trees,  and  animals, 
we  are  entertained  at  once  with  the  dehcacy  of  the 
colour,  with  the  gracefulness  of  the  figure,  and  some- 
times also  with  the  motion  of  the  object.  The  most 
complete  assemblage  of  beautiful  objects,  which  can  be 
found,  is  presented  by  a  rich  natural  landscape,  where 
there  is  a  sufiicient  variety  of  objects ;  fields  in  ver- 
dure, scattered  trees  and  flowers,  running  water,  and 
animals  grazing.  If  to  these  be  added  some  of  the 
productions  of  art,  suitable  to  such  a  scene;  as,  a 
bridge  with  arches  over  a  river,  smoke  rising  from  cot- 
tages in  the  midst  of  trees,  and  a  distant  view  of  a 
fine  building,  seen  by  the  rising  sun ;  we  then  enjoy 
in  the  highest  perfection  that  gay,  cheerful,  and  placid 
sensation,  which  characterizes  beauty. 

The  beauty  of  the  human  countenance  is  more  com- 
plex than  any  we  have  yet  examined.  It  compre- 
hends the  beauty  of  colour,  arising  from  the  dehcata 
'shades  of  the  complexion ;  and  the  beauty  of  figure, 
•arising  from  the  fines,  which  constitute  difierent  fea- 
tures of  the  face.    But  the  principal  beauty  of  the 


What  does  Hogarth  ohserve  ? 

What,  when  colour,  figure,  and  motion  meet  togethei;  1— Elus- 
trate. 

What  is  said  of  the  beauty  of  the  human  countenance  7 — What 
does  it  comprehend     Upou  "what  does  the  principal  beauty  of  the 


PLEASURES  OF  TASTE. 


33 


countenance  depends  upon  a  mysterious  expression, 
which  it  conveys,  of  the  quahties  of  the  mind ;  of 
good  sense,  of  good  humour ;  of  candour,  benevo- 
lence, sensibility,  or  other  amiable  dispositions.  It 
may  be  observed,  that  there  are  certam  qualities  of 
the  mind,  which,  whether 'expressed  in  the  counte- 
nance, or  by  words,  or  by  actions,  always  raise  in  us  a 
feehng  similar  to  that  of  beauty.  There  are  two 
great  classes  of  moral  qualities;  owe  is  of  the  high 
and  the  great  virtues,  which  require  extraordinary 
eftbrts,  and  is  founded  on  dangers  and  sufferings ;  as 
heroism,  magnanimity,  contempt  of  pleasures,  and 
contempt  of  death.  These  produce  m  the  spectator 
an  emotion  of  sublimity  and  grandeur.  The  other 
class  is  chiefly  of  the  social  \di-taes ;  and  such  as  are 
of  a  softer  and  gentler  kind ;  as  compassion,  mildness, 
and  generosity.  These  excite  in  the  beholder  a  sen- 
sation of  pleasure,  so  nearly  allied  to  that  excited  by 
beautiful  external  objects,  that,  though  of  a  more  ex- 
alted nature,  it  may  with  propriety  be  classed  under 
the  same  head. 

Beauty  of  writing  in  its  more  definite  sense,  charae-  \./ 
terizes  a  particular  manner ;  signifying  a  certain  gTace 
and  amenity  in  the  turn  either  of  style  or  sentiment, 
oy  which  some  authors  are  particularly  distinguished. 
In  this  sense,  it  denotes  a  manner  neither  remarkably 
ubhme,  nor  vehemently  passionate,  nor  uncommonly 
parkhng ;  but  such  as  excites  in  the  reader,  an  emo- 
ion  of  the  placid  kind,  resembling  that  which  is 
aised  by  the  contemplation  of  beautiful  objects  in 
natme ;  which  neither  hfts  the  mind  very  high,  nor 
agitates  it  to  excess ;  but  spreads  over  the  imagination 
a  pleasmg  serenity.    AdcUson  is  a  writer  of  this  cha- 
racter, and  one  of  the  most  proper  examples  of  it 
Fenelon,  the  author  of  Telemachus,  is  another  exam- 


human  countenance  depend  ?— What  may  loe  obseryed  7— What  are 
the  two  great  classes  of  moral  qualities  ]— and  what  effect  do  they 
produce  ? 


84: 


BEAUTY  AND  OTHER 


pie,  Virgil,  also,  though  very  capable  of  rising  oc- 
casionally into  the  sublime,  yet  generally  is  distin- 
guished by  the  character  of  beauty  and  grace,  rather 
than  of  sublimity.  Among  orators,  Cicero  has  more 
of  the  beautiful  than  Demosthenes,  whose  genius  led 
him  wholly  toward  vehemence  and  strength. 

So  much  it  is  necessary  to  have  said  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  beauty;  since  next  to  sublimity  it  is  the  most 
copious  source  of  the  pleasures  of  taste.  But  objects 
delight  the  imagination  not  only  by  appearing  under 
the  forms  of  sublime  or  beautiful ;  they  hkewise  derive 
their  power  of  giving  it  pleasure  from  several  other 
principles. 

Novelty,  for  example,  has  been  mentioned  by  Addi- 
son, and  by  every  writer  on  this  subject.  An  object, 
which  has  no  other  merit,  than  that  of  being  new,  by 
this  quality  alone  raises  in  the  mind  a  vivid  and  an 
agreeable  emotion.  Hence  that  passion  of  curiosity, 
which  prevails  so  generally  in  mankind.  Objects  and 
ideas,  which  have  been  long  familiar,  make  too  faint 
an  impression,  to  give  an  agreeable  exercise  to  our 
faculties.  New  and  strange  objects  rouse  the  mind 
fi'ora  its  dormant  state,  by  giving  it  a  sudden  and 
pleasing  impulse.  Hence,  in  a  great  measure,  the  en- 
tertainment we  receive  from  fiction  and  romance.  The 
emotion  raised  by  novelty,  is  of  a  more  lively  and 
awakening  nature,  than  that  produced  by  beauty; 
but  much  shorter  in  its  duration.  For,  if  the  object 
have  in  itself  no  charms  to  hold  our  attention,  the 
gloss,  spread  over  it  by  novelty,  soon  wears  off.  I 

Imitation  is  another  source  of  pleasure  to  taste 
This  gives  rise  to  what  Addison  terms  the  secondary 
pleasures  of  imagination,  which  form  a  very  extensive 
class.    For  all  imitation  affords  some  pleasure  to  this 


What  is  said  of  the  beauty  of  writing  ? — Who  are  writers  of  this 
character  ?—V7hat  is  said  of  Cicero''— Of  Demosthenes? 
What  is  said  of  norelty  ? 
What  of  imitation  ? 


PLEASURES  OF  TASTE. 


35 


mind;  not  only  the  imitation  of  beautiful  or  sublime 
objects,  by  recalling  the  original  ideas  of  beauty  or 
grandeur,  which  such  objects  themselves-  exhibited; 
but  even  objects,  which  have  neither  beauty  nor  gran- 
deur ;  nay,  some,  which  are  tenible  or  deformed,  give 
us  pleasure,  in  a  secondary  or  represented  view. 

The  pleasures  of  melody  and  harmony  belong  also 
to  taste.  There  is  no  delightful  sensation  we  receive, 
either  from  beauty  or  sublimity,  which  is  not  capable 
of  being  heightened  by  the  power  of  musical  sound. 
Hence  the  charm  of  poetical  numbers ;  and  even  of 
the  concealed  and  looser  measures  of  prose.  Wit, 
humour,  and  ridicule,  open  likewise  a  variety  of  plea- 
sures to  taste,  altogether  different  from  any  that  have 
yet  been  considered. 

At  present  it  is  not  necessary  to  pursue  any  farther 
the  subject  of  the  pleasures  of  taste ;  we  have  opened 
some  of  the  general  principles ;  it  is  time  now  to  ap- 
ply them.to  our  chief  subject.  If  it  be  asked,  to  what 
class  of  those  pleasures  of  taste  which  have  been  enu- 
merated, that  pleasure  is  to  be  referred  which  we  re- 
ceive fi'om  poetiy,  eloquence,  or  fine  ^^^^ting  ?  The 
answer  is,  not  to  any  one,  but  to  them  all.  This  pe- 
culiar advantage  writing  and  discourse  possess ;  they 
encompass  a  large  and  fr-uitful  field  on  all  sides,  and 
have  power  to  exhibit  in  great  perfection,  not  a  single 
set  of  objects  only,  but  almost  the  whole  of  those 
which  give  pleasure  to  taste  and  imagination  ;  whe- 
ther that  pleasure  arise  fi-om  subhmity,  from  beauty- 
in  its  vai-ious  forms,  fr-om  design  and  art,  fi-om  moral 
sentiment,  from  novelty,  from  harmony,  from  wit,  hu- 
mo'ii',  or  ridicule.  To  whichsoever  of  these  a  pei- 
son's  taste  is  directed,  from  some  wi-iter  or  other  he 


What  of  the  pleasures  of  melody  and  harmony  ?— What  is  said  of 
■wit.  humour,  and  ridicule  ? 

What  is  not  necessary  to  do? — What  has  been  done  ? — What  ques- 
tion is  proposed  ?— What  is  the  answer?— What  peculiar  advantage 
does  writing  and  discourse  possess  ? 


36 


BEAUTY,  &C. 


has  it  always  in  his  power  to  receive  the  gratification 
of  it. 

It  has  been  usual  among  critical  writere  to  treat  of 
discourse  as  the  chief  of  all  the  imitative  arts.  They 
compare  it  with  painting  and  with  sculpture,  and  in 
many  respects  prefer  it  justly  before  them.  But  we 
_naust  distinguish  between  imitation  and  description 
Words  have  no  natural  resemblance  of  the  ideas  or 
objects  which  they  signify ;  but  a  statue  or  picture  has 
a  natural  likeness  of  the  original. 

As  far,  however,  as  a  poet  or  historian  introduces 
into  his  work  persons  really  speaking,  and  by  words^ 
which  he  puts  into  their  mouths,  represents  the  con- 
versation which  they  might  be  supposed  to  hold ;  so 
far  his  art  may  be  called  imitative ;  and  this  is  the 
case  in  all  dramatic  composition.  But  in  narrative  or 
descriptive  works,  it  cannot  with  propriety  be  so  call- 
ed. Who,  for  example,  would  call  Virgil's  description 
of  a  tempest,  in  the  first  Eneid,  an  imitartion  of  a 
storm  ?  If  we  heard  of  the  imitation  of  a  battle,  we 
might  naturally  think  of  some  mock  fight,  or  repre- 
sentation of  a  battle  on  the  stage ;  but  should  never 
imagine  it  meant  one  of  Homer's  descriptions  in  the 
Iliad.  It  must  be  allowed,  at  the  same  time,  that  imi- 
tation and  description  agree  in  their  principal  eflfect, 
that  of  recaUing  by  external  signs  the  ideas  of  things 
which  we  do  not  see.  But,  though  in  this  they  coin- 
cide, yet  it  should  be  remembered,  that  the  terms 
"themselves  are  not  synonymous ;  that  they  import  dif- 
ferent means  of  producing  the  same  end ;  and  conse- 
quently make  different  impressions  on  the  mind. 


What  has  been  usual  among  critical  writers  ?— But  what  must  we 
do) 

When  may  the  art  of  the  poet  or  historian  he  called  imitative  ?— 
lu  what  composition  is  this  the  case  ? — In  what  works  cannot  It  be 
eo  called  ?— Example.— What  must  be  allowed  ]— But  though  in  thU 
thoy  coincide,  yet  what  must  be  remembered  ? 


[3^ 

LECTURE  VI. 

ORIGIN  AND  PPvOGRESS  OF  LANGUAGE. 

To  foiTQan  adequate  idea  of  the  origin  of  language 
ve  must  contemplate  the  circumstancesl)f  manMiid  in 
tlieir  earliest  and  rudest  state.  They  were  then  a 
wandering,  scattered  race;  no  society  among  them 
except  families ;  and  family  society  also  very  imper- 
fect, as  theh  mode  of  li-v-ing,  by  hunting  or  pasturage, 
must  have  separated  them  h-equently  from  each  other. 
In  such  a  condition,  how  could  any  one  set  of  sounds 
or  words  be  universally  agreed  on,  as  the  signs  of 
their  ideas  ?  Supposing  that  a  few  whom  chance  or 
necessity  threw  together,  agreed  by  some  means  up- 
on certain  signs ;  yet,  by  what  authority  could  these 
be  so  propagated  among  other  tribes  or  iamiiies,  as  to 
^Tow  up  into  a  language  ?  One  would  imagine  that 
fien  must  have  been  previously  gathered  together  in 
(X)nsiderable  niunbers,  before  language  could  be  fixed 
and  extended ;  and  yet  on  the  other  hand  there  seems 
to  have  been  an  absolute  necessity  of  speech  pre\T.ously 
to  the  formation  of  society.  For  by  what  bond  could 
a  multitude  of  men  be  kept  together,  or  be  connected 
in  prosecution  of  any  common  interest,  before  by  the 
assistance  of  speech  they  could  communicate  theii* 
wants  and  intentions  to  each  other?  So  that,  how 
f)^ciety  could  subsist  previously  to  language,  and  how 
\  ords  could  rise  into  language  before  the  formation 
of  society,  seem  to  be  points  attended  ^vith  equal  dif- 
ficulty. When  WB  consider  farther  that  curious  anal- 
ogy, Avhich  prevails  in  the  construction  of  almost  all 
languages,  and  that  deep  and  subtile  logic,  on  which 

What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

To  form  an  idea  of  the  origin  of  language,  what  circumstances  of 
mankind  must  be  considered  ? — Are  there  difficulties  in  accounting 
for  the  origin  cf  language,  and  what  are  thej  " — In  view  of  thestf 
difficulties  what  haye  we  no  small  reason  to  conclude] 

4 


38 


ORIGIN  AND  PKOGREBS 


tliey  are  founded ;  difficulties  increase  so  mucli  an 
us  OR  all  sides,  that  there  seems  to  be  no  small  reason 
for  referring  the  origin  of  all  language  to  divine  in- 
spiration. 

But  supposing  language  to  have  a  divine  original, 
we  cannot  imagine  that  a  perfect  system  of  it  was  at 
once  given  to  man.  It  is  much  more  natural  to  sup- 
pose that  God  taught  our  first  parents  only  such  lan- 
guage as  suited  their  present  occasions ;  lea^dng  them 
as  he  did  in  other  respects,  to  enlarge  and  improve 
it  as  their  future  necessities  should  require.  Conse- 
quently, those  rudiments  of  speech  must  have  been 
poor  and  narrow  ;  and  we  are  at  liberty  to  inquire,  in 
what  manner,  and  by  what  steps,  language  advanced 
to  the  state  in  which  we  now  find  it. 

Should  we  suppose  a  period  existed  before  words 
were  invented  or  known,  it  is  evident,  that  men  could 
have  no  other  method  of  communicating  their  feelings 
than  by  the  cries  of  passion,  accompanied  by  such 
motions  and  gestures  as  were  farther  expressive  of 
emotion.  These  indeed  are  the  only  signs  which  na- 
ture teaches  all  men,  and  which  are  understood  by 
all.  One,  who  saw  another  going  into  some  place 
where  he  himself  had  been  frightened,  or  exposed  to 
danger,  and  who  wished  to  warn  his  neighbour  of  the 
danger,  could  contrive  no  other  method  of  doing  it 
than  by  uttering  those  cries,  and  making  those  ges- 
tures, which  are  the  signs  of  fear ;  as  two  men  at  this 
day  would  endeavour  to  make  themselves  understood 
by  each  other,  if  thrown  together  on  a  desolate  island, 
ignorant  of  each  other's  language.  Those  exclama- 
tions, therefore,  by  grammarians  called  interjections, 
J  uttered  in  a  strong  and  passionate  manner,  were  un- 
doubtedly the  elements  of  speech. 

Supposing  language  to  have  a  divine  original,  in  what  degrees  may 
we  imagine  it  was  given  to  man  ? 

In  supposing  a  period  before  which  words  were  invented  or  known, 
in  what  way  W(^uld  men  communicate  their  feelings  ?— Were  theso 
exclamations  eh  ments  of  speech  ? 


OF  LANGUAGE. 


39 


When  more  enlarged  commimication  became  requi-  - 
site,  and  names  began  to  be  applied  to  objects  ;  how 
can  we  suppose  men  proceeded  m  this  application  of 
names,  or  invention  of  words  ?  Certainly  by  imitating, 
as  much  as  they  could,  the  nature  of  the  object  named 
by  the  sound  of  the  name  given  to  it.  As  a  painter, 
who  would  represent  gi-ass,  must  employ  a  green  co- 
lour ;  so  in  the  infancy  of  language  one,  gi^^ng  a  name 
to  any  thing  harsh  or  boisterous,  would  of  coui-se  em- 
ploy a  harsh  or  boisterous  sound.  He  could  not  do 
otherwise,  if  he  desired  to  excite  in  the  hearer  the  idea 
of  that  object,  which  he  wished  to  name.  To  ima- 
gine words  invented  or  names  given  to  things,  without 
any  ground  or  reason,  is  to  suppose  an  effect  without 
a  cause.  There  must  always  have  been  some  motive, 
which  led  to  one  name,  rather  than  another ;  and  we 
can  suppose  no  motive,  which  would  more  generally 
operate  upon  men  in  their  first  efforts  toward  lan- 
g-uage,  than  a  desire  to  paiiit  by  speedi  the  objects,  - 
which  they  named,  in  a  manner  more  or  less  complete, 
according  as  it  was  in  the  power  of  the  human  voice 
to  effect  this  imitation. 

Wherever  objects  were  to  be  named,  in  which  sound, 
noise,  or  motion  was  concerned,  the  imitation  by 
words  was  sufficiently  obvious.  Nothing  was  more 
natural,  than  to  imitate,  by  the  sound  of  the  voice, 
the  quality  of  the  sound  or  noise,  which  any  external 
object  produced ;  and  to  form  its  name  accordingly. 
Thus  in  all  languages  we  discover  a  multitude  of 
words,  which  are  e\-idently  constructed  on  this  princi- 
ple. A  Certain  bird  is  cahed  the  cuckoo,  from  the 
sound  which  it  emits.  When  one  sort  of  vdnd  is  said 
to  whistle,  and  another  to  roar  ;  when  a  serpent  is 
said  to  lass  ;  a  fly  to  buzz  ;  and  falling  timber  to 
crash  ;  when  a  stream  is  said  to  fiow  ;  and  hail  to 
rattle;  the  resemblance  between  the  word  and  the 


How  can  we  suppose  men  proceeded  in  this  application  of  namea 
or  inTention  of  words  •— liluitrate. — Exampliis. 


40 


ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 


things  signified  is  plainly  discernible.  But.  in  the  names 
of  objects  which  address  the  sight  only,  where  neither 
noise  nor  motion  is  concerned'  and  still  more  in 
terms,  appropriated  to  moral  ideas,  this  analogy  ap- 
pears to  fail.  Yet  many  learned  men  have  imagined 
that,  though  in  such  cases  it  becomes  more  obscure,  it 
is  not  altogether  lost ;  and  that  in  the  radical  words 
of  all  languages  there  may  be  traced  some  degi-ee 
of  correspondence  ^vith  the  objects  signified. 

This  principle,  however,  of  a  natural  relation  be- 
tween words  and  objects,  can  be  applied  to  language 
only  in  its  most  simple  and  early  state.  Though  in 
every  tongue  some  remains  of  it  may  be  traced,  it 
•  were  uttei-ly  in  vain  to  search  for  it  through  the  whole 

[:  construction  of  any  modern  language.    As  terms  in- 

\  creaso  in  every  nation,  and  the  vast  field  of  language 
is  filled  up,  words  by  a  thousand  fanciful  and  irregu- 
lar methods  of  derivation-  and  composition  deviate 
widely  from  the  primitive  character  of  their  roots,  and 

J  lose  all  resemblance  in  sound  of  the  thing  signified. 

I  This  is  the  present  state  of  language.  Words,  as  w^ 
now  use  them,  taken  in  general,  may  be  considered  as 
symbols,  not  imitations ;  as  arbitrary  or  instituted,  not 
natural  signs  of  ideas.  But  there  can  be  no  doubt, 
that  language,  the  nearer  we  approach  to  its  rise 
among  men,  will  be  found  to  partake  more  of  a  na- 
tural expression. 

Interjections,  it  has  been  shown,  or  passionate  ex- 
clamations, were  the  elements  of  speech.  Men  la- 
boured to  communicate  their  feehngs  to  each  other, 
by  those  expressive  cries  and  gestures,  which  nature 
taught  them.  After  words,  or  names  of  objects,  be- 
gan to  be  invented,  this  mode  of  speaking  by  natural 


What  have  ^any  learned  men  imagined  ? 

How  is  this  principle  to  be  applied  to  language  ? — Why  is  it  not 
fonnd  now  ? — What  are  words  as  we  now  use  them? — Of  what  can 
there  be  no  doubt  1 

AVhat  were  the  elements  of  speech  ?— How  is  this  proved  ? 


OF  LANGUAGE. 


41 


signs  could  not  be  all  at  once  disused.  For  language 
in  its  infancy  must  have  been  extremely  barren  ;  and 
there  certainly  was  a  period  among  all  rude  nations, 
when  conversation  was  carried  on  by  a  very  few 
words,  intermixed  with  many  exclamations  and  earn- 
est gestures.  The  small  stock  of  words  which 
then  possessed,  rendered  those  helps  entirely  necessary 
for  explaining  theu*  conceptions;  and  rude,  unculti- 
vated indi\aduals,  not  having  always  ready  even  the 
few  words  which  they  knew,  would  naturally  labour 
to  make  themselves  understood  by  varying  their  tones 
of  voice,  and  by  accompanying  their  tones  with  the 
most  expressive  gesticulations. 

To  this  mode  of  speaking,  necessity  gave  rise.  But 
we  must  observe  that,  after  this  necessity  had  in  a 
great  degree  ceased,  by  language  becoming  in  process 
of  time  more  extensive  and  copious,  the  ancient  man- 
ner of  speech  still  subsisted  among  many  nations; 
and,  what  had  arisen  from  necessity,  continued  to  be 
used  for  ornament.  In  the  Greek  and  Roman  lan- 
guages, a  musical  and  gesticulatina:  pronunciation  was 
retained  in  a  very  high  degree.  Without  attending  to 
this,  we  shall  be  at  a  loss  in  understanding  several 
passages  of  the  classics,  which  relate  to  the  public 
speaking  and  theatrical  entertainments  of  the  ancients. 
Our  modern  pronunciation  would  have  seemed  to  them 
a  lifeless  monotony.  The  declamation  of  their  orators 
and  the  pronunciation  of  theu*  actors  upon  the  stage 
approached  to  the  nature  of  recitative  in  music ;  was 
capable  of  being  marked  by  notes,  and  supported  by 
instruments ;  as  several  learned  men  have  proved, 

With  regard  to  gesture  the  case  was  parallel ;  for 
strong  tones  and  animated  gestm-es  always  go  together. 


What  gave  rise  to  this  mode  of  speech  ?— When  this  necessity  had 
ceased,  was  this  practice  retained,  and  for  what  purpose  ■? — In  what 
languages  was  it  retained? — How  would  our  pronunciation  have 
seemed'to  them  ?— What  was  the  character  of  the  declamation  of 
their  orators,  and  the  pronunciation  of  their  actors  ? 

What  always  go  together? — vvhat  was  the  action  of  orators  and 

4* 


42 


ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 


The  action  botli  of  orators  and  players'^n  Greece  and 
Rome  was  far  more  vehement  than  that  to  which  we 
are  accustomed.  To  us,  Roscius  would  appear  a  mad- 
man. Gesture  was  of  such  consequence  on  the  ancient 
stage,  that  there  is  reason  for  behoving  that  on  some 
occasions  the  speaking  and  the  acting  were  divided 
which,  according  to  our  ideas,  would  form  a  Strang 
exhibition.  One  player  spoke  the  words  in  the  pro- 
})er  tones,  while  another  expressed  the  corresponding 
motions  and  gestures.  Cicero  tells  us,  it  was  a  con- 
test between  him  and  Roscius,  w^hether  he  could  ex- 
press a  sentiment  in  a  greater  variety  of  phrases,  or 
Roscius  in  a  greater  variety  of  intelligible  significant 
gestm-es.  At  last,  gesture  engi-ossed  the  stage  entirely ; 
for  under  the  reigns  of  Augustus  and  Tiberius,  the 
favourite  entertainment  of  the  public  was  the  panto- 
mime, which  was.  carried  on  by  gesticulation  only. 
The  people  were  moved,  and  wept  at  it  as  much  as  at 
tragedies ;  and  the  passion  for  it  became  so  violent, 
that  laws  were  made  for  restraining  the  senators  fi'om 
studying  the  pantomime  art.  Now,-  though  in  de- 
clamations and  theatrical  exhibitions  both  tone  and 
gesture  were  carried  much  farther  than  in  common 
discourse ;  yet  public  speaking  of  any  kind  must  in 
every  country  bear  some  proportion  to  the  manner 
which  is  used  in  conversation ;  and  such  pubhc  en- 
tertainments could  never  be  relished  by  a  nation 
whose  tones  and  gestures  in  discourse  were  as  languid 
as  ours. 

*  The  early  language  of  men,  being  entirely  com 
DOsed  of  words  descriptive  of  sensible  objects,  be- 
came of  necessity  extremely  metaphorical.    For,  to 


players  in  Greece  and  Homo  ? — What  would  RoschiP  appear  to  ns  ? 
— Of  what  consequence  was  gesture  ? — What  does  Cicero  tell  us  ? — 
To  what  extent  was  gesture  at  length  carried  ?— What  was  the 
favourite  amusement  of  the  public  in  the  reigns  of  Augustus  and 
Tiberius  1 — How  were  the  people  affected  by  it  ?— What  is  said  of 
public  speaking  ? — What  of  such  public  entertainments? 
Why  did  language  become  of  necessity  metaphorical  i— In  what 


OF  LANGUAGE. 


43 


signify  any  d^-e  or  passion,  or  any  act  or  feeling  of 
tlie  mind,  they  had  no  fixed  expression  which  was 
appropriated  to  that  piu'pose;  but  were  obhged  to 
paint  the  emotion  or  passion,  which  they  fek,  by  alhid- 
mg  to  those  sensible  objects,  which  had  most  connex 
ion  -with,  it,  and  which  could  render  it  in  some  degi  ce 
visible  to  others. 

But  it  was  not  necessity  alone,  that  gave  rise  to 
this  pictured  style.  In  the  infancy  of  all  societies,  fear 
and  surprise,  wonder  and  astonishment,  are  the  most 
frequent  passions  of  men.  Then-  language  will  neces-  < 
sarily  be  affected  by  this  character  of  their  minds. 
They  will  be  disposed  to  paint  every  thing  m  the 
strongest  colours.  Even  the  manner,  in-  which  the 
first  tribes  of  men  uttered  their  words,  had  considera- 
ble influence  on  their  style.  Wherever  strong  excla- 
mations, tones,  and'  gestures,  are  connected  with  con- 
versation, the  imagination  is  always  more  exercised ;  a 
gi-eater  effort  of  fancy  and  passion  is  excited.  Thus 
the  fancy,  being  kept  awake,  and  rendered  more 
sprightly  by  this  mode  of  utterance,  operates  upon 
the  style,  and  gives  it  additional  life  and  spirit. 

As  one  proof  among  many,  which  might  be  prod^iced 
to  the  truth  of  these  observations,  we  shall  transcribe 
a  speech  from  Colden's  Histoiy  of  the  Five  Indian 
Nations,  which  was  delivered  by  then*  chiefs,  when 
entering  on  a  treaty  of  peace  with  us,  in  the  following 
language.  "  We  are  happy  in  ha\dng  buried  under 
gi'ound  the  red  axe,  that  has  so  often  been  dyed  in 
the  blood  of  our  brethren.  N'ow  in  this  fort  we  inter 
the  axe,  and  plant  the  tree  of  peace.  We  p^ant  a 
tree,  whose  top  will  reach  the  sun ;  and  its  branches 
spread  abroad  so  that  it  shall  be  seen  afar  off.  May 
its  growth  never  be  stifled  and  choked ;  but  may  it 
shade  both  your  country  and  ours  with  its  leaves. 


way?— What  gave  rise  to  this  pictured  style?— Illustrate.— What 
proof  is  adduced  in  support  of  this  truth  J— Cite  the  Siauipie. 


44         ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS  OF  LANGUAGE. 

Let  US  make  fast  its  roots,  and  extend  tliem  to  tlie  ut- 
most of  your  colonies.  If  the  French  should  come 
to  shake  this  tree,  we  should  know  it  by  the  motion 
of  its  roots  reaching  into  our  country.  May  the 
Great  Spirit  allow  us  to  re.^t  in  tranquillity  upon  our 
mats,  and  ne^er  again  dig  up  the  axe,  to  cut  down  the 
tree  of  peace  !  Let  the  earth  be  trodden  hard  over  it, 
where  it  lies  buried.  Let  a  strong  stream  run  under 
the  pit,  to  wash  the  evil  away  out  of  our  sight  and 
remembrance.  The  fire,  that  had  long  burned  in  Al- 
bany, is  extinguished.  The  bloody  bed  is  washed 
clean,  and  the  tears  are  wiped  from  our  eyes.  We 
now  renew  the  covenant  chain  of  friendship.  Let  it 
be  kept  bright  and  clean  as  silver,  and  not  suffered  to 
contract  any  rust.  Let  not  any  one  pull  away  his 
arm  from  it." 

As  language  in  its  progress  grew  more  copious  it 
gi'adually  lost  that  figurative  style,  which  was  its  early 
character.  The  vehement  manner  of  speaking  by 
tones  and  gestures  became  less  common.  Instead  of 
poets,  philosophers  became  'the  instructors  of  men ; 
and  in  their  reasoning  on  all  subjects  introduced  that 
plainer  and  more  simple  style  of  composition  which 
we  now  call  prose.  Thus  the  ancient  metaphorical 
and  poetical  dress  of  language  was  at  length  laid 
aside  iri  the  intercourse  of  meii,  alid  reserved  for  those 
occasions  only,  on  which  ornament  was  professedl}» 
studied. 


How  did  languagi^  lose  its  figurative  style  ? — What  became  lesi 
common?— What  did  philosophers  beconio  instead  of  poets ?— What 
did  they  do  ? — Thus  what  followed.  ? 


145] 


LECTURE  YII. 


RISE  AND  PKOGEESS  OF  LANGUAGE  AND 
OF  WRITING. 

4 

When  we  examine  tlie  order  in  which  ■  words  are 
arranged  in  a  sentence,  we  find  a  very  remarkable 
difference  between  ancient  and  modern  tongues. 
The  consideration  of  this  will  serve  to  unfold  farther 
the  genius  of  language,  and  to  show  the  causes  of 
those  alterations  it  has  undergone  in  the  progress  of 
society. 

To  conceive  distinctly  the  nature  of  this  alteration, 
we  must  go  back,  as  before,  to  the  earhest  period  of 
languao^e.  Let  us  fia;ure  to  ourselves  a  savao-e  be- 
holding  some  fruit  which  he  earnestly  desires,  and 
requests  another  to  give  him.  Suppose  him  unac- 
quainted with  w^ords,  he  .T^ould  strive  to  make  himsell* 
understood  by  pointing  eagerly  at  the  object  desired, 
and  uttering  at  the  same  time  a  passionate  cry.  Su}> 
posing  him  to  have  acquired  words,  the  first  word 
which  he  would  utter  would  be  the  name  of  that  ob- 
ject. He  would  not  express  himself  according  to  our 
^rder  of  constitietion,  "  Give  me  fruit ;"  but  according 
to  the  Latin -OAjder,  "Fruit  give  me,"  "Fructumda 
mihi,"  for  .this  plain  reason,  that  his  attention  was 
wholly  directed  towards  fruit,  the  object  desired. 
Hence  we  might  conclude  a  priori^  that  this  was  the 


What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  do  we  find  in  examining  the  order  in  which  words  are  ar- 
ranged in  a  sentence  ? 

The  consideration  of  this  will  serve  to  do  what  ? 

To  conceive  distinctly  the  nature  of  this  alteration,  what  must 
we  do  ?— What  should  we  figure  to  ourselves  ?— Supposing  him  un- 
acquainted with  words,  what  woidd  he  do  ? — Supposing  him  tr\  have 
acquired  words,  what  would  he  do  ? — How  would  he  not  express 
himself? — How  would' he  express  himself,  and  for  what  reason?  - 
Hence  what  might  we  conclude  ? — Accordingly  what  do  we  find  ? 


46 


RISE  AND  PROGRESS  OF 


order  in  wliicli  words  were  most  commonly  arranged 
in  the  infancy  of  language  ;  and  accordingly  we  find 
in  reality  that  in  this  order  words  are  arranged  in 
most  of  the  ancient  tongues,  as  in  the  Greek  and  La- 
tin ;  and  it  is  said  likewise  in  the  Russian,  Sclavonic, 
Gaehc,  and  several  American  tongues. 

The  modern  languages  of  Europe  have  adopted  a 
different  arrangement  from  the  ancient.  In  their  prosa 
compositions  very  little  variety  is  admitted  in  the  col 
location  of  words  ;  they  are  chiefly  fixed  to  one  order, 
which  may  be  called  the  order  of  the  understanding. 
They  place  first  in  the  sentence  the  person  or  thing, 
which  speaks  or  acts ;  next,  its  action  ;  and  lastly,  the 
object  of  its  action.  Thus  an  English  writer,  paying 
a  compliment  to  a  great  man,  would  say,  "  It  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  pass  over  in  silence  so  distinguished 
mildness,  so  singular  and  unheard-of  clemency,  and  so 
uncommon  moderation,  in  the  exercise  of  supreme 
power."  Here  is  first  presented  to  us  the  person  who 
speaks,  "  It  is  impossible  for  me;"  next,  what  the 
same  person  is  to  do,  "  to  pass  over  in  silence  ;"  and 
lastly,  the  object  which  excites  him  to  action,  "  the 
mildness,  clemency,  and  moderation  of  his  patron." 
Cicero,  from  whom  these  words  are  translated,  re- 
verses this  order.  lie  begins  with  the  object ;  places 
that  first,  which  was  the  exciting  idea  in  the  speaker's 
mind,  and  ends  with  the  speaker  and  his  action. 
"  Tantum,  mansuetudinem,  tam  inusitatam  mauditam- 
que  clementiam,  tantumque  in  summa  potestate  rerum 
omnium  modum,  tacitus  nullo  modo  pra^terire  possum." 
'Elere,  it  must  be  observed,  the  Latin  order  is  more 
animated  ;  the  English  more  clear  and  distinct. 

Our  language  naturally  allows  greater  liberty  for 
transposition  and  inversion  in  poetry,  than  in  prose. 


What  have  the  modern  languages  of  Europe  adopted  ? — What  ia 
said  of  their  prose  compositions  ? — Illustrate. — How  is  the  Latin 
order  ? — llow  is  the  English  ? 

What  does  our  language  naturally  allow  ?— What  is  further  said 


LANGUAGE  AND  OF  WRITING. 


47 


E\'en  there,  however,  this  hberty  is  confined  "U'ilhin 
narrow  hmits,  in  comparison  with  the  ancient  lan- 
guages. In  this  respect,  modern  tongues  vary  from 
each  other.  The  Itahan  approaches  the  nearest  in  its 
character  to  the  ancient  transposition  ;  the  Enghsh 
has  more  inversion  than  tlie  rest ;  and  the  French 
has  the  least  of  aU. 

Wnting  is  an  improvement  upon  speech,  and  con 
sequently  was  posterior  to  it  in  order  of  time.  Its 
characters  are  of  two  kinds,  signs  of  things,  an ^1  signs 
of  words.  Thus  the  pictures,  hieroglyphics,  and  sym- 
bols, employed  by  the  ancients,  were  of  the  former 
sort;  the  alphabetical  charactei-s,  now  employed  by 
Eiu'opeans,  of  the  latter. 

Pictures  were  certainly  the  first  attempt  toward 
writing.  Mankind  in  all  ages  and  in  all  nations  have 
been  prone  to  imitation.  This  would  soon  be  em- 
ployed for  describing  and  recording  events.  Thus,  to 
signify  that  one  man  had  Idlled  another,  they  paint- 
ed the  figure  of  one  man  lying  on  the  ground,  and  of 
another  standing  by  him  with  a  hostile  weapon  in  his 
hand.  When  America  was  first  discovered,  this  was 
the  only  kind  of  writing  ^vith  which  the  Mexicans 
were  acquainted.  It  was,  however,  a  very  imperfect 
mode  of  recordmg  facts ;  since  by  pictmes  external 
events  only  could  be  delineated. 

Hieroglyphic al  characters  may  be  considered  as  the 
second  stage  of  the  art  of  writing.  They  consist  of 
^-ertain  symbols,  which  are  made  to  stand  for  in^dsible 
objects,  on  account  of  their  supposed  resemblance  of 
the  objects  themselves.     Thus  an  eye  represented 


of  this  liberty  ?— What  is  said  of  the  Italian  language  ?— Of  the 
English,  aud  of  the  French  ? 

What  is  said  of  "vrriting  ? — What  are  its  characters  ? — What  vrere 
of  the  former  sort  ?— What  the  latter  ? 

What  is  said  of  pictures  ?— What  haye  mankind  been  prone  to  in 
all  ages?— HoTv  -w-ould  this  soon  be  employed? — Illustrate. — Who 
^^•rote  in  this  vr^j  ? — What  is  said  of  this  mode  of  -(vriting  ? — What 
may  hiexoglyphical  characters  be  considered  ? — What  do  they  con- 


48 


RISE  AND  PROGRESS  OF 


knowledge  ;  and  a  circle,  having  neither  beginning 
nor  end,  was  the  symbol  of  eternity.  Egypt  was  the 
country  wdiere  this  kind  of  writing  was  most  studied, 
and  brought  into  a  regular  art.  By  these  characters 
all  the  boasted  wisdom  of  their  priests  was  conveyed. 
They  pitched  upon  animals,  to  be  the  emblems  of 
moral  objects,  according  to  the  qualities  with  whicl 
they  supposed  them  to  be  endued,  Thus  imprudenc 
was  denominated  by  a  fly  ;  wisdom,  by  an  ant ;  and 
victory,  by  a  hawk.  But  this  sort  of  writing  was 
in  the  highest  degree  enigmatical  and  confused  ; 
and  consequently  a  very  imperfect  vehicle  of  know- 
ledge. 

From  hieroglyphics  some  nations  gradually  advanc- 
ed to  simple  arbitrary  marks,  which  stood  for  objects, 
though  without  any  resemblance  of  the  objects  signi- 
fied. Of  this  nature  was  the  writing  of  the  Peru- 
vians. They  used  small  cords  of  different  colours ;  and 
by  knots  upon  these  of  different  sizes  and  variously 
ranged,  they  invented  signs  for  communicating  their 
thoughts  to  one  another.  The  Chinese  at  this  day 
use  written  characters  of  this  nature.  They  have  no 
alphabet  of  letters  or  simple  sounds  of  which  their 
words  are  composed,  but  every  single  character,  which 
they  use,  is  expressive  of  an  idea  ;  it  is  a  mark,  which 
signifies  some  one  thing  or  object.  The  number  of 
these  characters  must  consequently  be  immense. — 
They  are  said  indeed  to  amount  to  seventy  thousand. 
To  be  perfectly  acquainted  with  them  is  the  business 
of  a  whole  life  ;  which  must  have  greatly  retarded 
among  them  the  progress  of  every  kind  of  science. 


gist  of? — Wbat  did  an  eye  represent  ?— What  a  circle  ?— Where  was 
this  kind  of  writing  most  studied  1 — By.  these  characters  what  was 
done  ? — What  did  they  do  1 — How  were  imprudence,  wisdom,  and 
victory  denominated  ? — But  what  was  this  sort  of  writing  ? 

From  hieroglyphics  what  did  some  nations  do  ? — Who  wrote  in 
this  way  ? — What  did  they  use  ? — What  is  the  present  mode  of  writ- 
ing among  the  Chinese  ?—  Said  of  the  number  of  their  characters  ? — 
Of  acquiring  a  knowled^  of  them  ? 


LAXGUAGE  AXD  OF  WRITIXG. 


49 


It  is  evident,  that  tlie  Chinese  character^,  like  hie- 
roglyphics, are  signs  of  things,  and  not  of  Avords 
For  we  are  told,  that  the  Japanese,  the  Tonquinese, 
and  the  Coroeans,  who  speak  different  languages  from 
each  other,  and  from  the  inhabitants  of  China,  use, 
towever,  the  same  vrritten  characters  with  them,  and 
tlins  coiTespond  intelligibly  with  one  another  in  vrdt 
ing,  though  mutnahy  ignorant  of  each  other's  language. 
Our  arithmetical  figures,  1,  2,  3,  4,  &c.,  are  an  example 
of  this  sort  of  ^Titing.  Thej  have  no  dependence 
on  words ;  each  figure  represents  the  number  for  which 
it  stands;  and  consecjuently  is  equally  understood 
by  all  nations,  who  have  agi-eed  in  the  use  of  these 
figures. 

The  first  step,  to  remedy  the  imperfection,  the  am- 
biguity, and  the  tediousness  of  each  of  the  methodtS 
of  communication  which  have  been  mentioned,  was 
the  invL^ntii:>n  of  signs,  which  should  stand  not  directly 
for  things,  but  for  the  words  by  which  things  were 
named  and  distinguished.  An  alphabet  of  syllables 
seems  to  haye  been  inyented  previously  to  an  alpha- 
bet of  letters.  Such  a  one  is  said  to  be  retained  at 
this  day  in  Ethiopia,  and  some  coimtries  of  India. 
But  at  best  it  must  have  been  imperfect  and  inefiec- 
tual ;  since  the  number  of  characters,  being  very  con- 
siderable, must  have  rendered  both  reachng  and  writ- 
ing very  complex  and  laborious. 

To  whom  we  are  indebted  for  the  subhme  and  re- 
fined discoyery  of  letters  is  not  determined.  They 
were  brought  into  Greece  by  Cadmus  the  Phenician, 
who,  according  to  Sir  Isaac  I^ewton's  Chronology, 
was  contemporary  with  kmg  Da^id.    His  alphabet 


What  is  eTident  in  respect  to  the  Chinese  characters  ? — What 
reasons  are  assigned  for  this  ? — What,  is  an  example  of  this  sort  of 
■writing  ?— What  is  said  of  them  ? 

"\\hat  -n-as  the  first  step  to  remedy  the  imperfection.  &c.,  of  this 
method  ?— Where  is  it  still  retained  ? — What  is  said  of  it  ? 

Is  it  knoTrn  vrho  discovered  letters  1 — Ey  Trhom -were  they  hronght 
into   Greece  ? — Who  -was  he   contemporary  -with  ? — How  many 

5 


50         RISE  AND  PROGRESS  OF  LANGUAGE,  &C. 

contained  only  sixteen  letters.  The  rest  were  after- 
wards added,  according  as  signs  for  proper  sounds 
were  found  to  be  wanting.  The  Phenician,  Hebrew, 
Greek,  and  Roman  alphabets  agree  so  much  in  the 
figure,  names,  and  arrangement  of  the  letters,  as 
amounts  to  demonstration,  that  they  were  derived 
originally  from  the  same  source. 

The  ancient  order  of  writing  was  from  the  right 
nand  to  the  left.  This  method,  as  appears  from  some 
very  old  inscriptions,  prevailed  even  among  the 
Greeks.  They  afterwards  used  to  write  their  hues 
alternately  from  the  right  to  the  left,  and  ft-ora  the 
left  to  the  right.  The  inscription  on  the  famous  Si- 
gean  monument  is  a  specimen  of  this  mode  of  writ- 
ing, which  continued  till  the  days  of  Solon,  the  cele- 
brated legislator  of  Athens.  At  length,  the  motiou 
from  the  left  hand  to  the  rio-ht,  beino'  found  more 
natural  and  convenient,  this  order  of  writing  was 
adopted  by  all  the  nations  of  Europe. 

Writing  was  first  exhibited  on  pillars  and  tables  of 
stone  ;  afterward  on  plates  of  the  softer  metals.  As 
it  became  more  common,  the  leaves  and  bark  of  cer- 
tain trees  were  used  in  some  countries ;  and  in  others, 
tablets  of  wood  covered  with  a  thin  coat  of  soft  wax, 
on  which  the  impression  was  made  ^vith  a  stylus  of 
iron.  Parchment,  made  of  the  hides  of  animals,  was 
an  invention  of  later  times.  Pciper  was  not  invented 
before  the  fom-teenth  century. 


letters  did  his  alphabet  contain  ? — How  -vrere  the  rest  added  ? — 
What  is  said  of  the  Phenician.  Hebrew,  Greek,  and  Roman  alpha- 
bets 1 

What  was  the  ancient  order  of  -writing  ?— Among  whom  did  this 
method  prevail  ? — How  did  they  afterward  write  ? — Where  is  there 
a  specimen  of  this  mode  of  writing  ? 

At  length  what  was  found  more  natural  and  convenient;  T_By 
whom  was  this  order  adopted  ? — How  was  writing  first  exhibited  ? 
•—How  afterward? — How  when  it  became  more  common? — AYhat 
TFas  invented  in  later  times  ?— When  was  paper  invented  ? 


[51] 


LECTURE  Yin. 

STEUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE. 

The  common  division  of  speecli  into  eiglit  parts, 
nouns,  pronouns,  verbs,  participles,  adverbs,  preposi- 
tions, interjections,  and  conjunctions,  is  not  very  ac- 
curate ;  siifce  under  the  general  term  of  nouns  it 
comprehends  both  substanti^'es  and  adjectives,  which 
are  parts  of  speech  essentially  distinct.  Yet,  as  wo 
are  most  accustomed  to  this  division,  and,  as  logical 
exactness  is  not  necessary  to  our  present  design,  we 
shall  adopt  these  terms,  which  habit  has  made  fa- 
miliar to  us. 

Substantive  nouns  are  the  foundation  of  grammar, 
and  the  most  ancient  part  of  speech.'  AVhen  men 
had  advanced  beyond  simple  mterjections  or  excla- 
mations of  passion,  and  had  begun  to  communicate 
their  ideas  to  each  other,  they  would  be  obliged  to 
assign  names  to  objects  by  which  they  were  .sur- 
rounded. Wherever  a  savage  looked,  he  beheld 
forests  and  trees.  To  distinguish  each  by  a  separate 
name  would  have  been  endless.  Then-  common  qua- 
lities, such  as  springing  from  a  root,  and  bearing 
branches  and  leaves,  would  suggest  a  general  idea 
and  a  general  name.  The  genus,  tree,  was  after- 
wards subdivided  into  its  several  species  of  oak,  elm, 
ash,  (fee,  upon  experience  and  observation. 

Still,  however,  only  general  terms  were  used  in 
speech.  For  oak,  elm,  and  ash,  were  names  of  whole 
classes  of  objects,  each  of  which  comprehended  an 
immense  number  of  undistinguished  indi\dduals. 
Thus,  when  the  nouns  man,  hon,  or  tree,  were  men- 

What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  is  said  cf  the  common  dlTision  of  speech  ?— Why  does  the 
author  adopt  these  terms  ? — What  are  substantive  nouns  ; — How 
did  they  originate  ? — What  gave  rise  to  that  part  cf  spi  ech  called 
the  article  I 


52 


STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE. 


tioned  in  conversation,  it  could  not  be  known,  which 
man,  lion,  or  tree,  was  meant  among  the  multitude 
comprehended  under  one  name.  Hence  arose  a  ve- 
ry useful  contrivance  for  determining  the  individual 
object  intended,  by  means  of  that  part  of  speeca 
called  the  article.  In  English  we  have  two  articles.| 
a  and  the ;  a  is  more  general,  the  more  definite  ^ 
The  Greeks  had  but  one,  which  agrees  \^ith  om*  de- 
finite article  the.  They  supplied  the  place  of  our  ar- 
ticle a,  by  the  absence  of  theh  article ;  thus  Anthro- 
pos  signifies  a  man,  0  Anthropos  the  man.  The 
Latins  had  no  article  ;  but  in  the  room  of  it  used  the 
pronouns,  hie,  ilie,  iste.  This  however  seems  a  defect 
in  their  language ;  since  articles  certainly  contribute 
much  to  perspicuity  and  precision. 

To  perceive  the  truth  of  this  remark,  observe  the 
different  imports  of  the  following  expressions  :  "  The 
son  of  a  king,  the  son  of  the  king,  a  son  of  the 
king's."  Each  of  these  three  phrases  has  a  separate 
meaning,  too  obvious  to  be  misunderstood.  But,  in 
Latin,  "  filius  regis,"  is  entirely  undetermined  ;  it  may 
bear,  either  of  the  three  senses  mentioned. 

Besides  this  quality  of  being  defined  by  the  article, 
three  affections  belong  to  nouns  ;  number,  gender, 
and  case,  which  deserve  to  be  considered. 

Number,  as  it  makes  a  noun  significant  of  one  or 
more,  is,  singular  or  plural ;  a  distinction  found  in  all 
tongues,  which  must  have  been  coeval  with  the  ori- 
gin  of  language,  since  there  were  few  things,  which 
men  had  more  frequent  necessity  of  expressing,  than^ 
the  distmction  between  one  and  more.    In  the  He- 


What  arp  the  English  articles  ? — How  many  had  the  Greeks  ? 
— How  did  they  supply  the  place  of  our  article  a?— Had  the  Latins 
an  article  1— What  did  they  use  in  the  room  of  it  ?— Is  this  a  defect 
in  their  language,  and  why  ? 

How  may  we  perceive  the  truth  of  this  remark  ? — What  belongs 
to  nouns  ? 

What  is  number  ? — In  what  language  do  we  find  a  dual  number  ' 
—How  may  this  be  accounted  for  ? 


STRUCTURE  0?  LANGUAGE. 


53 


brew,  Greek,  and  some  otlier  ancient  languages,  we 
find  not  only  a  plural,  but  a  dual  number  ;  tlie  origin 
of  wliicli  may  very  naturally  be  accounted  for,  as 
separate  terms  of  numbering  were  yet  undiscovered, 
and  one,  two,  and  many  were  all,  or  at  least  the  prin- 
cipal numeral  distinctions  which  men  at  first  had  any 
occasion  to  make. 

Gender,  which  is  founded  on  the  distinction  of  the 
two  sexes,  can  with  propriety  be  applied  to  the  names 
of  living  creatures  only.  All  other  nouns  ought  to 
be  of  the  neuter  gender.  Yet  in  most  languages  the 
same  distinction  is  apphed  to  a  great  number  of  in- 
animate objects.  Thus,  in  the  Latin  tongue,  ensis,  a 
sword,  is  masculine ;  sagitta,  an  arrow,  is  feminine ; 
and  this  assignation  of  sex  to  inanimate  objects,  often 
appears  entirely  capricious.  In  the  Greek  and  Latin, 
however,  all  inanimate  objects  are  not  distributed  into 
masculine  and  feminine;  but  many  of  them  are 
classed,  where  all  ought  to  be,  under  the  neuter  gen- 
der ;  as  saxurn^  a  rock ;  mare^  the  sea.  But  in  the 
French  and  Italian  tono-ues,  the  neuter  p'ender  is 
wholly  unknown  ;  all  their  names  of  inanimate  ob- 
jects being  put  upon  the  same  footin^with  those  of 
living  creatures,  and  distributed  without,  reserve  into 
masculine  and  feminine.  In  the  English  language, 
all  nouns,  literally  used,  that  are  not  names  of  liv- 
ing creatures,  are  neuter ;  and  ours  is,  perhaps,  the 
only  tongue,  except  the  Chinese,  which  is  said  to  re- 
semble it  in  this  particular,  in  which  the  distinction  of 
gender  is  philosophically  applied. 

Case  denotes  the  state  or  relation,  which  one  ob- 
ject bears  to  another,  by  some  variation  of  the  name 
of  that  object ;  generally  in  the  final  letters,  and  by 
some  languages  in  the  initial.    All  tongues,  however, 

To  what  only  should  gender  be  applied  ?— What  should  all  other 
norms  be  ? — Yet  how  is  it  in  most  languages  ? — Example. — How  is  it 
in  the  Greek  and  Latin  ? — How  in  the  French  and  Italian  ?— How  in 
the  English  ? 

What  does  case  denote  ? — Do  all  tongues  agree  in  this  mode  of 

5* 


64 


STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE. 


do  not  agree  in  this  mode  of  expression.  Declension 
is  used  by  the  Greek  and  Latin ;  but  in  the  English, 
French,  and  Italian,  it  is  not  found ;  or,  at  most,  it 
exists  in  a  very  imperfect  state.  These  languages 
express  the  relations  of  objects  by  prepositions,  which 
are  the  names  of  those  relations  prefixed  to  the  names 
of  objects.  English  nouns  have  no  case,  except  a  sort 
of  genitive,  commonly  formed  by  adding  the  letter  s 
to  the  noun ;  al'  when  we  say  "  Pope's  Dunciad " 
meaning  the  Dunciad  of  Pope. 

Whether  the  moderns  have  given  beauty  or  utility 
to  language,  by  the  abolition  of  cases,  may  perhaps 
be  doubted.  They  have,  however,  certainly  rendered 
it  more  simple,  by  removing  that  intricacy  which 
arose  from  different  forms  of  declension,  and  from 
the  irregularities  of  the  several  declensions.  But  in 
obtaining  this  simplicity,  it  must  be  confessed,  we 
have  filled  lano-uao-e  with  a  multitude  of  those  little 
words,  called  prepositions,  which,  by  perpetually 
occurring  in  every  sentence,  encumber  speech;  and 
by  rendering  it  more  prohx,  elevate  its  force.  The 
sound  of  modern  language  is  also  less  agreeable  to 
the  ear,  being  deprived  of  that  variety  and  sweetness, 
which  arose  from  the  length  of  words,  and  the  change 
of  terminations,  occasioned  by  cases  in  the  Greek  and 
Latin.  But  perhaps  the  greatest  disadvantage  we 
sustain  by  the  abolition  of  cases,  is  the  loss  of  that 
liberty  of  transposition  in  the  arrangement  of  words, 
which  the  ancient  languages  enjoyed. 

Pronouns  are  the  representatives  of  nouns,  and  are 


expression  ?— By  what  languages  is  declension  used  ? — Where  is 
it  not  found  ? — What  do  these  languages  do  ? — Have  English  nouns 
case  ? — Example. 

Have  the  moderns  given  beauty  or  utility  to  language  by  the 
abolition  of  cases  ? — What,  however,  have  they  done  ? — In  obtain- 
ing this  simplicity,  what  has  language  been  filled  with  ? — What  ia 
their  elfect  ?— What  is  said  of  the  sound  of  modern  languages  ?— 
What  perhaps  is  the  greatest  disadvantage  we  sustain  by  the  abo- 
lition of  cases  ? 


STRUCTURE  OF  LAXGUAGE. 


65 


subject  to  tlie  same  modifications  of  nrnxiber,  gender, 
and  case.  We  may  observe,  however,  that  the  pro- 
nouns of  the  fii'st  and  second  person,  /  and  thou,  have 
no  distinction  of  gender  in  any  language  ;  for,  as  they 
always  refer  to  persons  present,  then'  sex  must  be 
knoA^Ti,  and  therefore  needs  not  to  be  marked  by 
their  pronouns.  But,  as  the  third  person  may  be 
absent,  or  unknown,  the  distinction  of  gender  there 
becomes  requisite ;  and  accordingly  in  Enghsh,  it  hath 
all  the  three  gendei-s,  he,  she,  it. 

Adjectives,  as  strong,  weak,  handsome,  ugly,  are 
the  plainest  and  most  simple  in  that  class  of  words, 
which  are  termed  attiibutive.  They  are  common  to 
all  languages,  and  must  have  been  very  early  invented ; 
since  objects  could  neither  be  distinguished  nor 
treated  of  in  discom-se,  before  names  were  assigned  to 
then-  difi"erent  c^uahties. 


LECTURE  IX. 

STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE— ENQLISH 
TONGUE. 

Of  all  the  parts  of  speech,  verbs  are  by  far  the 
most  complex  and  useful.  From  their  importance 
we  may  justly  conclude,  that  they  were  coeval  with 
the  orioin  of  lanonao-e :  thouo-h  a  lono-  time  must 
have  been  requisite  to  rear  them  up  to  that  accuracy 
which  they  now  possess. 


What  are  pronouns  ? — To  •«-hat  are  they  snhject? — Wliat  is  said 
the  first  and  second  person? — What  of  the  third  person? 
What  is  said  of  adjectives? 

What  is  the  subject  of  this  lectiire  I 
What  is  said  of  verbs  ? 


56 


STRUCTURE   OF  LANGUAGE. 


Tlie  tenses  were  contrived  to  mark  the  several  dis- 
tinctions of  time.  We  commonly  think  of  no  more 
than  Its  three  great  divisions,  the  past,  the  present, 
and  the  future ;  and  wo  might  suppose  that,  if  verbs 
had  been  so  contrived  as  merely  to  express  these, 
BO  more  was  necessary.  But  language  proceeds 
v/ith  much  greater  subtilty.  It  divides  time  into  its 
several  moments;  it  regards  it,  as  never  standing 
still,  but  always  flowing ;  things  past,  as  more  or  less 
distant ;  and  things  future,  as  more  or  less  remote  by 
different  gradations.  Hence  the  variety  of  tenses  in 
almost  every  language. 

The  present  may  indeed  be  always  regarded  as  one 
indivisible  point,  which  admits  no  variety ;  "  I  am," 
"  su7ny  But  it  is  not  so  with  the  past.  Even  the 
poorest  language  has  two  or  three  tenses  to  express 
its  varieties.  Ours  has  four.  1.  A  past  action  may 
be  represented  as  unfinished,  by  the  imperfect  tense ; 
"  I  was  walking,  amhulahamr  2.  As  finished,  by 
the  perfect  tense;  "  I  have  walked."  3,  As  finished 
some  time  since,  the  particular  time  being  left  unde- 
termined ;  "  I  walked,  amhidavi ;"  this  is  what 
grammarians  call  an  aorist  or  indefinite  past.  4.  As 
finished  before  something  else,  which  is  also  past. 
This  is  the  plusquamperfect ;  "  I  had  walked,  amhula- 
veram.  I  had  walked  before  you  called  upon  me." 
Our  language,  we  must  perceive  with  pleasure,  has 
an  advantage  over  the  Latin,  which  has  only  three 
variations  of  past  time. 

The  varieties  in  future  time  are  two ;  a  simple  or 
indefinite  future  ;  "  I  shall  walk,  amhulaho ;"  and  a 


What  were  the  tenses  contrived  for  ? — How  many  divisions  do  we 
commonly  think  of  .' — What  might  we  suppose  1 — How  does  it  divide 
time  1 — How  does  it  regard  it  ? 

How  may  the  present  be  regarded  ? — Is  it  so  with  the  past  ?— 
What  has  the  poorest  language  1 — How  many  has  ours? — What  are 
they  ? — Has  our  language  an  advantage  over  the  Latin  ? 

How  many  are  the  varieties  in  future  time  ? — What  are  they  f 


EXGLISH   TOXGUE.  57 

future  having  a  reference  to  sometliiug  else,  ^tiicli  is 
lIk:e^^ise  fotiu-e  ;  "I  shall  have  ^valked.  a;/i5?//'./;v;/-o  ; 
I  shall  have  walhed,  before  he  will  pay  me  a  vi-it.*' 

Besides  tenses,  verbs  admit  the  distinction  of  voices, 
viz.  the  active  and  passive  :  as.  "  I  love,  or  I  am  lov- 
ed."' They  admit  also  die  ',l:-ti]!o:i:-ii  i:f  in.;._l- -  .'i 
are  intended  to  express  the  perceptions  and  ve.iii.ju^ 
of  the  mind  under  different  forms.  The  indicative 
mode  simply  declares  a  proposition ;  "  I  "wiite  :  I 
have  wiitten."  Tlie  imperative  requires,  commands, 
or  threatens  ;  AVrite  thou  :  \?t  him  v^iite."  The 
subjunctive  ex|?re5SeS  a  pr^'pC'siti';'!!  iin  ].?r  the  tbrm  of 
a  condition ;  or  as  sub'^rdinate  t-j  somi^rihinu'.  to  Avhieh 
reference  is  made  :  '"I  might  vrrite  :  I  criui:!  write  ;  I 
should  write  if  the  nifittCT  w.;-!'.}  sr.."'  This  c-xpr.;->i':.ii 
of  the  perceptiT'iis  anl  v^^;Iv.ns  of  the  mini  in  ?o 
many  various  f  jtm-.  t^'gether  with  the-  d:-::iioti'jn  of 
the  three  persons.  /.  thou,  and  Ae,  constitutes  the  con- 
jugation of  verbs,  which  makes  so  gTeat  a  pan  of  the 
grammar  of  aU  languages. 

Conjugation  is  reckoned  most  perf  ;  t  in  t'lose  lan- 
gtiages.  which,  by  varying  the  termin;iti'  n  '.r  the  in- 
itial syllable  of  the  v.-ri ..  .-xv'ressc-s  the  gTeate-t  num- 
ber of  unportant  circiuustances  ^^itholU  the  help  of 
auxiliary  verbs.  In  the  oriental  tongties  verbs  have 
few  tenses ;  but  their  modes  are  so  contrive'!  a-  to 
express  a  gi-eat  variety  c^f  circumstances  an^l  rLi;rd_'n-. 
In  the  Hebrew  they  say  in  one  word,  without  tlie  aid 
of  an  auxiliary,  not  only,  "  I  taught,"  but.  "  I  was 
tanuht :  I  cau-ed  to  teach  ;  I  was  can-  '  _  di  *, 

I  tauuht  myself."  The  Greek,  which  i  __...-^nly 
thought  to  be  the  most  perfect  of  ah  languages. 


Besides  tenses  what  do  Terts  admit  ■ — What  are  they- — Wliat 
else  do  thev  admit  ?— "What  is  the  indicative  mode  ' — Wliat  is  the 
imperative  ? — What  the  subjunctive  \ — What  constitutes  the  conju« 
gation  of  verhs  ■ 

In  what  lanjTuage  is  conjugation  reckoned  most  perfect  ? — How  is 
it  in  the  'jriei;tal  tongues  ? — How  in  the  Hebrew  ? — In  the  Greek  i— 
In  the  Latin  I — In  modem  European  tongues  1 


58 


STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE. 


is  very  regular  and  complete  in  the  modes  and  tenses. 
The  Latin,  though  formed  on  the  same  model,  is  not 
so  perfect  ;  particularly  in  the  passive  voice,  which 
forms  most  of  the  tenses  by  the  aid  of  the  auxiliary 
*'  sumy  In  modern  European  tongues,  conjugation 
is  very  defective.  The  two  great .  auxiliary  verbs,  to 
have^  and  to  he^  with  those  otiier  auxiliaries,  which  we 
use  in  English,  c/o,  shali^  will,  may,  and  can^  prefixed 
to  a  participle,  or  to  another  verb  in  the  infinitive 
mode,  supersede  in  a  great  measure  the  difterent  ter- 
minations of  modes  and  tenses  which  formed  the  an- 
cient conjugations.  . 

The  other  parts  of  speech,  as  they  admit  no  varia- 
tion, will  require  only  a  short  discussion. 

Adverbs  are  for  the  most  part  an  abridged  mode  of 
speech,  expressing  by  one  word,  what  might  by  a 
circumlocution  be  resolved  into  two  or  moi-e  words, 
belonging  to  other  parts  of  speech. — "  Here,"  for 
instance,  is  the  same  with  "  in  this  place."  Hence 
adverbs  seem  to  be  less  necessary,  and  of  later  in- 
troduction into  speech,  than  several  other  classes  of 
w^ords  ;  and  accordingly  most  of  them  are  derived 
from  other  words,  formerly  estabhshed  in  the  lan- 
guage. 

I'repositions  and  conjunctions  serve  to  express  the 
relations  which  things  bear  to  one  another,  their  mu- 
tual influence,  dependence,  and  coherence ;  and  so  to 
join  w^ords  together,  as  to  form  intelligible  positions. 
Conjunctions  are  commonly  employed  for  connecting 
sentences,  or  members  of  sentences ;  as,  and,  because 
and  the  like.  Prepositions  are  used  for  connecting 
words  ;  as  of,  from,  to,  &c.  The  beauty  and  strength 
of  every  language  depend  in  a  great  measure  on  a 


What  is  said  of  other  parts  of  speech  ? 

What  are  adverbs  ? — What  is  said  of  their  introduction  into 

speech  ? 

What  are  prepositions  and  conjunctions  ? — For  what  are  they 
commonly  employed  ?— Upon  what  does  the  beauty  and  strength  of 
every  lauguago  depend  ' 


ENGLISH  TONGUE. 


69 


proper  use  of  conjunctions,  prepositions,  and  those 

relative  pronouns,  -u^hicli  serve  tlie  same  purpose  of 
connir'.tii.g  diS'erent  parts  of  discourse. 

Ha^uiig  thus  briefly  considered  the  stmctm-e  of  lan- 
guage in  general,  we  ■will  now  enter  more  parrlcularlv 
into  an  examination  of  our  own  lano-uarfe. 

The  Eiiglish,  which  was  spoken  after  the  Xormari 
conquest  and  continues  to  he  spoken  now,  is  a  mix- 
ttu'e  of  the  ancient  Saxon  and  the  Xorman  French,  to- 
gether with  such  new  and  foreig-n  words,  as  commerce 
and  learning  have,  in  a  succession  of  ages.  gTadually 
introduced.  From  the  influx  of  so  many  streams, 
from  a  junction  of  so  n:ary  d:--:mi';-r  parts,  it  natural- 
ly follows,  that  the  -  -ye  irr  -::  ;;d 
lanofuao^e,  must  he  s-  a.  v.L^.t  iiTC-iiT.iur.  AVc  ecj.n-t 
expect  fi'om  it  that  c  inplete  analogy  in  struettire, 
which  may  he  found  in  those  simpler  langnagy v  L:  h 
were  fonned  within  themselves,  and  built  on  ■  a- 


dat?n. — Hence  our  synt--::  -1  it,  since  there  are 
few  marks  in  the  words  th  i.  -  a  -  which  show  their 
relation  to  each  other,  or  point  out  «:■::■  '  r  t'  ':■  ^  ].cor- 
dance  or  their  gorernment  in  a  sent  a  ■.  L  a_.  a.  ihesa 
be  disadvai:-;  „  -  'a  ■       1  I  i ;_aage,  they  are 

balanced  by  i -  ;  '  ;  a  _  -  -  'a  :i:a:nd  it  paiticu- 
larlv  bv  the  niunber  aiai  '  •  - '  -        words  bv  v.  hicli 


such  a  language  is  comn.'  a^y  enriched.  Few  lan- 
guages are  more  copious  than  the  English.  In  all 
gTave  subjects,  especially,  historical,  critical,  political, 
and  moral,  no  complaint  can  justly  be  made  of  the 
baiTenness  of  our  tongue.  We  are  rich  too  in  the  lan- 
guage of  poetiy  ;  our  poetical  style  differs  widely  from 
prose,  net  with  respect  to  numbers  only,  but  in  the 
reiy  vrords  themselves  ;  which  proves  what  a  com- 


What  is  th-  Erraa-.  !  —  ^— Why  i;  it  irregrilar  What 
eann';t  we  tx;     '  a        '\_  :      ^aid  cf  cur  syntax  — Ty  -^ha-; 

are  these  di5a.a-;,v ; ;  g  i.;-.:;,:.c-i  Said  cf  its  'ccpiousneis  I— Of 
its  character  in  aU  grare  subjects  : — Row  is  it  in  respect  to  poetry  ? 
— What  does  this  prove  .- — How  are  we  in  comparison  with  ih<j 


GO 


STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE. 


pass  and  variety  of  words  we  can  select  and  employ, 
suited  to  different  occasions.  ELerein  we  are  infinite- 
ly superior  to  the  French,  whose  poetical  language,  if 
it  were  not  distinguished  by  rhyme,  would  not  be 
known  to  differ  from  their  ordinary  prose.  Their  lan- 
guage, however,  surpasses  ours  in  expressing  what- 
ever is  delicate,  gay,  and  amusing.  It  is,  perhaps,  the 
happiest  language  for  conversation  in  the  known 
world  ;  but  for  the  higher  subjects  of  composition,  the 
English  is  justly  considered  as  far  superior  to  it. 

The  flexibility  of  a  language,  or  its  power  of  be- 
coming either  grave  and  strong,  or  easy  and  flowing, 
or  tender  and  gentle,  or  pompous  and  magnificent,  as 
as  occasions  require,  is  a  quality  of  great  importance  in 
speaking  and  writing.  This  depends  on  the  copious- 
ness of  a  language ;  the  ditTerent  arrangements  of 
which  its  words  are  susceptible  ;  and  the  variety  and 
beauty  of  the  sound  of  its  words.  The  Greek  pos- 
sessed these  requisites  in  a  higher  degree  than  any 
other  language.  It  superadded  the  graceful  variety 
of  its  diflerent  dialects,  and  thereby  readily  assumed 
every  kind  of  character  an  author  could  wish,  from 
the  most  simple  and  familiar,  to  the  most  majestic. 
The  Latin,  though  very  beautiful,  is  inferior  in  this 
respect  to  the  Greek.  It  has  more  of  a  fixed  character 
of  statehness  and  gravity  ;  and  is  supported  by  a  cer- 
tain senatorial  dignity,  of  which  it  is  difficult  for  a 
miter  to  divest  it.  Among  modern  tongues  the  Ita- 
I  an  possesses  much  more  flexibility  than  the  French 
and  seems  to  be  on  the  whole  the  most  perfect  of  all 
the  modern  dialects  which  have  arisen  out  of  the  ruins 
of  the  ancient.  Our  language,  though  unequal  to  the 
Italian  in  flexibihty,  is  not  destitute  of  a  considerable 


French  1 — Why  ? — In  what  does  the  French  language  surpass  the 
English  1 — In  what  is  the  English  superior  ? 

W^hat  is  said  of  the  flexibility  of  a  language  ? — W^hat  does  this  de- 
pend on  ? — What  is  said  of  the  Greek  in  respect  to  these  requisites  ? 
"What  of  the  Latin     Of  the  Italian  ? — Of  our  language  J 


ENGLISH  TOXGUE. 


61 


degi'ee  of  this  quality.  Whoever  considers  the  di- 
versity of  style  of  some  of  our  best  writers,  will  dis- 
cover in  our  tongue  such  a  circle  of  expressions,  such 
a  power  of  accommodation  to  the  various  tastes  of 
men,  as  redounds  much  to  its  honour. 

Om'  language  has  been  thought  to  be  very  deficient 
in  harmony  of  sound  ;  yet  the  melody  of  its  vcr>ifica- 
tion,  its  power  of  supporting  poetical  niuRbers,  with- 
out the  assistance  of  rh}Tne,  is  a  sufficient  proof,  that 
it  is  far  fi-om  being  unharmonious.  Even  the  hissing 
sound,  of  which  it  has  been  accused,  obtains  less  fre- 
quently than  has  been  suspected.  For  in  many 
words,  and  in  the  final  sjdlaljles  especially,  the  letter 
s  has  the  sound  of  z,  which  is  one  of  the  sounds  on 
which  the  ear  rests  with  pleasure  ;  as  in  has,  these, 
loves,  hears,  &c. 

It  must,  however,  be  admitted  that  smoothness  is 
not  the  distinguishing  property  of  the  English  tongue. 
Strength  and  expressiveness,  rather  than  grace  and 
tnelody,  constitute  its  character.  It  possesses  also  the 
property  of  being  the  most  simple  of  all  the  European 
dialects  in  its  form  and  construction.  It  is  ti^ee  from 
the  intricacy  of  cases,  declensions,  modes,  and  tenses. 
Its  words  are  subject  to  fewer  variations  from  their 
original  fonn,  than  those  of  any  other  language.  Its 
nouns  have  no  distinction  of  gender,  except  what  is 
made  by  nature  ;  and  but  one  variation  in  case.  Its 
adjectives  admit  no  change,  except  what  expresses 
the  degree  of  comparison.  Its  verbs,  instead  of  the 
varieties  of  ancient  conjugation,  admit  only  four  or 
five  changes  in  termination.  A  few  prepositions  and 
auxihary  verbs  eflect  aU  the  pm-poses  of  signifi'cancy  : 
while  the  jmncipal  words  for  the  most  part  preserve 


What  has  onr  language 'been  thoTight  deficient  in? — What  is  a 
ETifficient  proof  that  it  is  not  so  1 — What  is  said  of  the  hissing  sound 
of  vrhich  it  has  been  accused  ? 

"What.  ho'.veTer.  must  be  admitted  1 — What  constitutes  its  cha- 
racter ? — What  does  it  also  possess  ? — What  is  it  free  from  ? — WTiat 
is   said  of  its    -words  ?-  -^Touns  — AdjectiTes  ? — Terhs  — Preposi 

6 


62 


STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE. 


tlieir  form  unaltered.  Hence  our  language  acqmres  a 
simplicity  and  facility,  which  are  the  cause  of  its 
beiijg  frequently  written  and  sj^oken  with  inaccuracy. 
We  imagine  that  a  competent  skill  in  it  may  be  ac- 
quired without  any  study ;  and  that  in  a  syntax  sc 
narrow  and  limited  as  ours,  there  is  nothing  which 
requires  attention.  But  the  fundamental  rules  of  syn 
tax  are  common  to  the  English  and  to  the  aucient 
tongues ;  and  regard  to  them  is  absolutel}^  requisite 
for  writing  or  speaking  with  propriety. 

Whatever  be  the  advantages  or  defects  of  our  lan- 
guage, it  certainly  deserves  in,  the  highest  degi^ee,  our 
study  and  attention.  The  Greeks  and  Romans  in  the 
meridian  of  their  glory,  bestowed  the  highest  cultiva- 
tion on  the  respective  languages.  The  French  and 
Italians  have  employed  much  study  upon  theirs  ;  and 
their  example  is  worthy  of  imitation.  For,  whatever 
knowledge  may  be  gained  by  the  study  of  other  lan- 
guages, it  can  never  be  communicated  with  advantage, 
unless  by  those  who  can  write  and  speak  then  own 
language  with  propriety.  Let  the  matter  of  an  author 
be  ever  so  good  and  useful,  his  compositions  will 
always  suffer  in  the  ^public  esteem,  if  his  expressions 
be  deficient  hi  purity  or  propriety.  At  the  same  time, 
the  attainment  of  a  correct  and  elegant  style  is  an  ob- 
ject which  demands  application  and  labour.  If  any 
one  suppose  he  can  catch  it  merely  by  the  ear,  or  ac- 
quire it  by  a  hasty  perusal  of  some  of  our  good  au- 
thors, he  will  be  much  disappointed.  The  many 
grammatical  errors,  the  many  impuie  expressions. 


tions  and  auxiliary  verbs  ?— Hence  -what  does  our  language  acquire  ? 
— What  do  we  imagine  1 — Is  this  so  ?  • 

What  does  our  language  deserve  ? — What  did  the  Greeks  and  Ro- 
mans do  1— What  have  the  French  and  Italians  done  ?— Why  is  their 
example  -worthy  of  imitation  ? — Upon  what  groiind  is  an  author  in 
danger  of  sufiferiug  in  the  public  esteem  ? — What  is  necessary  to  at- 
tain a  correct  and  elegant  style  ? — Can  it  be  caught  by  the  ear  mere- 
»y,  or  by  the  hasty  perusal  of  some  good  authors  1 — What  demon- 
etrate  the  necessity  of  a  careful  study  of  our  language  J 


STYLE,  PEKSPICUITT,   iC.  63 

whicii  are  found  in  autliors  ^vllo  are  far  from  "being 
contemptible,  demonstrate  that  a  careful  study  of  ou'- 
language  is  predously  requisite  for  writing  it  witV 
propriety,  purity,  and  elegance. 


LECTURE  X. 

STYLE,  PERSPICUITY,  AND  PEECISIOX. 

Style  is  tlie  peculiar  manner  in  wliicli  a  man  ex- 
presses liis  thoiigEfs'"T)j  words.    It  is  a  picture  of  tlie  , 
ideas  in  liis  mind,  and  of  the  order  in  which  they 
there  exist. 

The  qualities  of  a  good  style  may  be  ranged  under 
two  heads,  perspicuity  and  grnainent. — It  will  recidily 
be  admitted,  that  perspicuity  is  the  fundamental  qual- 
ity of  a  good  style.    AViihout  this  the  brightest  orna- 
ments only  ghmmer  through  the  dark,  and  perplex 
instead  of  pleasing  the  reader.    If  we  be  forced  to  , 
follow  a  writer  with  much  care  ;  to  pause,  and  to  read  ; 
over  his  sentences  a  second  time^in  order  to  under- '  f 
stand  them  fuhy,  he  will  not  please  us  long.  Men 
are  too  indolent  to  rehsh  so  much  labour. — Though 
.they  may  pretend,  to  admhe  an  author's  depth,  after 
they  have  discovered  his  meaning,  they  will  seldom 
be  inchned  to  look  a  second  time  into  his  book. 

Perspicuity  requires  attention,  first  to  single  words 
and.  phrases,  and  then  to  the  construction  of  sentences.' 
^Yhen  considered  with  respect  to  '\\'^:>rds  and  phrases, 
it  reqtiires  these  three  Q^m]i\iQ?>^  purity^  ^rrojjriety^  and 
'precision. 


What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture? 
What  i=  <ty,e  ] 

How  uKiy  tliL-  iiualities  of  a  good  style  be  ranged  ? — When  wiU  not 
a  -writer  pk-a-.-  ii,-;  long  ?— What  will  follow  ? 

What  does  perspicuity  require  ?  —  \\  hat  is  said  of  purity  and  pro 
priety  ?  -What  is  purity  ?— \A  hat  is  propriety  ? 


G4 


STYLE,  PERSPICUITY,  «feC. 


Purity  and  propriety  of  language  are  often  used 
indiscriminately  for  each  other ;  and  indeed  they  are 
very  nearly  allied.  A  distinction,  however,  obtains 
between  them.  Purity  is  the  use  of  such  words  and 
constructions  as  belong  to  the  idiom  of  a  particular 
language,  in  opposition  to  words  and  phrases,  wliich 
are  imported  from  other  languages,  or  which  ar( 
obsolete,  or  newly  coined,  or  employed  without  pro 
per  authority.  Propriety  is  the  choice  of  such  words, 
as  the  best  and  niost  established  usage  has  appro- 
priated to  those  ideas,  which  we  intend  to  express  by 
them.  It  implies  a  correct  and  happy  application  of 
them,  in  opposition  to  vulgar  or  low  expressions,  and 
to  words  and  phrases  less  significant  of  the  ideas  we 
intend  to  convey.  Style  may  be  pure,  that  is,  it  may 
be  strictly  English  without  Scotticisms  or  Gallicisms, 
or  ungrammatical  expressions  of  any  kind,  and  yet  be 
deficient  in  propriety.  The  words  may  be  illy  select- 
ed ;  not  adapted  to  the  subject,  nor  fully  expressive  of 
the  author's  meaning.  He  took  them  indeed  from 
the  general  mass  of  Enghsh  words;  but  his  choice 
was  made  without  skill.  But  style  cannot  be  pro- 
per without  being  pure ;  it  is  the  union  of  purity  and 
propriet}^,  w^hich  renders  it  graceful  and  perspicuous. 

The  exact  meaning  of  precision  may  be  learnt  h-om 
the  etymology  of  the  word.  It  is  derived  from  "prce-. 
cedere^''  to  cut  ofl";  and  signifies  retrenching  all  super- 
fluities, and^^pruTrTng  the  expression  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  exhibit  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  idea . 
intended  to  be  conveyed. 

Words,  employed  to  express  ideas,  may  be  fault} 
In  three  respects.  They  may  either  not  express  the 
ideas  which  the  author  means,  but  some  others. which 
are  only  related ;  or  they  may  express  those  ideas, 


Whence  is  the  word  precision  derived  ?— What  does  it  signify  ? 
In  how  many  respects  may  words  be  faulty  ?— What  are  these 


STYLE,    PERSPICUITY,  diC. 


65 


but  not  completely;  or  they  may  express  them  to- 
gether with  something  more  than  he  intends.  Pre- 
cision  is  opposed  to  these  three  faults ;  but  particularly 
to  the  last,  into  which  feeble  writers  are  very  apt  to 
fall.  They  employ  a  multitude  of  words,  to  make 
themselves  understood,  as  they  think,  more  distinctly 
but  they  only  confound  the  reader.  The  image,  as 
they  place  it  before  you,  is  always  seen  double.  When 
an  author  tells  us  of  his  hero's  courage^  in  the  day 
of  battle ;  the  expression  is  precise,  and  we  under- 
stand it  fully.  But  if,  from  a  desire  of  multiplying 
words,  he  praise  his  courage  and  fortitude ;  at  the 
moment  he  joins  these  words  together,  om-  ideas  be- 
gins to  waver.  He  intends  to  express  one  quality 
more  strongly;  but  he  is  in  fact  expressing  two. 
(7oz^m^e  resists  diOXigQi^  fortitude  supports  pain.  The 
occasions  of  exerting  these  qualities  are  different; 
and,  being  led  to  think  of  both  together,  wdien  only 
one  of  them  should  engage  attention,  our  view  is  ren- 
dered unsteady,  and  our  conception  of  the  object  in- 
distinct. 

The  gTcat  source  of  a  loose  style,  the  opposite  of 
precision,  is  the  injudicious  use  of  "words  called  syno- 
nymous. Scarcely  in  any  language  are  there  two 
words  that  convey  precisely  the  same  idea;  and  a 
person,  perfectly  acquainted  with  the  propriety  of  the 
language,  will  always  be  able  to  observe  something 
by  which  they  are  distinguished.  In  our  language 
many  instances  may  be  given  of  diffei-ence  in  mean- 
ng  among  words,  reputed  synonymous ;  and,  as  the 
subject  is  important,  we  shall  point  out  a  few  of  them. 

Surprised^  astonished^  amazed^  confounded.  We 
are  surprised  at  what  is  new  or  unexpected ;  we  are 


faults  1— What  is  opposed  to  these  three  faults  ?  What  do  feebia 
•writers  do  ? — Illustrate. 

What  is  the  great  source  of  a  loose  style  ? — What  is  there  noi 
Bcarcely  in  any  language  ?  What  -ffiU  a  person  observe  who  is  ac- 
quainted with  the  propriety  of  language  ? — Give  the  examples  of 
the  difference  of  words  reputed  synonymous  in  our  language. 

6^ 


66 


SrYLE,    PERSPICUITY,  &C. 


astonished  at  what  is  vast  or  great ;  we  are  amazed 
at  what  is  incomprehensible ;  we  are  confounded  by 
what  is  shocking  or  terrible. 

Pride,  vayiity.  Pride  makes  us  esteem  ourselves* 
vanity  makes  us  desire  the  esteem  of  others. 

HaKghiiness,  disdain.  Haughtiness  is  founded  ou 
a  high  opinion  of  ourselves ;  disdain,  on  a  low  opinion 
of  others. 

To  weary,  to  fatigue.  Continuance  of  the  same 
thing  wearies  us ;  labour  fatigues  us.  A  man  is  wea- 
ried by  standing  ;  he  is  fatigued  by  walking. 

To  ahhor,  to  detest.    To  abhor  imports  simply 
strong  dislike ;  to  detest  imports  likewise  strong  dis- 
approbation.   We  abhor  being  in  debt;  we  detest 
%<■  treachery. 

To  invent,  to  discover.  We  invent  things  which 
are  new ;  we  discover  what  was  hidden.  Gahlseo  in- 
vented the  telescope ;  Harvey  discovered  the  circula- 
tion of  the  blood. 

Entire,  complete.  A  thing  is  entire,  when  it  wants 
none  of  its  parts ;  complete,  when  it  wants  none  of 
the  appendages  which  belong  to  it.  A  man  may  oc- 
cupy an  entire  house ;  though  he  have  not  one  com- 
plete apartment. 

Enough,  sufficient.  Enough  relates  to  the  quan- 
tity, which  we  wish  to  have  of  a  thing.  Sufficient, 
relates  to  the  use  that  is  to  be  made  of  it.  Hence 
enough  commonly  signifies  a  greater  quantity  than 
sufficient  does.  The  covetous  man  never  has  enough 
though  he  has  what  is  sufficient  for  nature. 

These  are  a  few  among  many  instances  of  word 
in  our  language,  which  by  careless  writers  are  apt  t-^ 
be  mistaken  for  synonymous.  The  more  the  distino- 
tion  in  the  meaning  of  such  words  is  regarded,  the 
more  accurately  and  forcibly  shall  we  speak  and 
write. 


LECTURE  XL 


STPvUCXUEE  OF  SEXTETTES 

A  PROPER  construction  of  sentences  is  of  such  im- 
portance in  every  species  of  composition,  tliat  ^e  can- 
not be  too  strict  or  minute  in  our  attention  to  it.  For, 
Tvliatever  be  tlie  sul^i^e:.  if  :be  ^'-y.-iices  be  constructed 
in  a  clumsy,  ijerpicxed,  or  I'-rb.':  manner,  tlie  work 
cannot  be  read  witli  pleasure.  n-:-r  evcii  with  profit. 
-Btit  by  aitenti'ju  to  the  rules,  which  relate  to  this 
part  of  style,  we  acquire  the  habit  of  exprcssmg  oui- 
sekes  with  perspicuity  and  elegance ;  and,  if  a  disor- 
der happen  to  arise  in  some  of  oui-  sentences,  we  im- 
mediately see  where  it  lies,  and  are  able  to  recrify  it. 

Tlie  pi'fjperties  most  essential  to  _a  j'eifeet  sentence 
are  the  tdm'  folio wino*.  1.  Clearness.  2.  Unity.  3. 
Strength.    4.  Harmony. 

Ambiguity  is  opposed  to  clearness,  and  arises  from 
two  causes;  either  from  a  wrong  choice  of  words, 
or  a  wi'ono-  C'llc'cati'^n  C'f  them.  Of  the  choice  of 
words,  as  far  as  r'/gai']-  perspicuity,  we  have  aheady 
poken.  Of  the  Cullocatien  of  them  we  are  now  to 
treat.  From  the  nattire  of  otu  lano'uage,  a  capital 
ule  in  the  an-angement  of  otu-  sentences  is,  that 
words  or  members  most  nearly  related,  should  be 
placed  as  near  to  each  other  as  possible,  that  their 
mutual  relation  may  clearly  appear.    This  rule  is 


What  is  the  sutject  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  is  Sail  of  the  importance  of  a  prcper  construction  of  sen- 
tences  ? 

What  are  the  properties  most  essential  to  a  perfect  sentence  ? 

"Wliat  is  opposed  to  clearness  ?— What  does  it  arise  from  Of 
Trhat  have  -we  already  spoken  ? — Of  what  are  vre  novr  to  treat  ? 
What  is  a  capital  rule  in  the  arrangement  cf  our  sentences  ?— Is  it 
ever  neglected  ? 


.-58 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 


frequently  neglected  even  by  good  writers.  A  few  in 
stances  will  show  both  its  importance  and  application. 

In  the  position  of  adverbs,  which  are  used  to 
qualify  the  signification  of  something,  which  either 
precedes  or  follows  them,  a  good  deal  of  nicety  is  to 
be  observed.  "  By  greatness,"  says  Addison,  "  I-  do 
not  only  mean  the  bulk  of  any  single  object,  but  the 
largeness  of  a  whole  view."  Here  the  place  of  the 
adverb  only  makes  it  limit  the  verb  mean.  "  I  do  not 
only  mean."  The  question  may  then  be  asked,  what 
does  he  more  than  mean  ?  Had  it  been  placed  after 
hulJc^  still  it  would  have  been  wrong,  for  it  might  then 
be  asked,  what  is  meant  beside  the  hulk?  Is  it  the 
colour  or  any  other  property  ?  Its  proper  place  is  af- 
ter the  word  object :  "  By  greatness  I  do  not  mean 
the  bulk  of  any  single  object  only ;"  for  then,  when 
it  is  asked,  what  does  he  mean  more  than  the  bulk  of 
a  single  object;  the  answer  comes  out  precisely  as 
the  author  intends,  "  the  largeness  of  a  whole  view." 
"  Theism,"  says  Lord  Shaftsbury,  "  can  only  be  op- 
posed to  polytheism  or  atheism."  It  may  be  asked 
then,  is  theism  capable  of  nothing  else,  except  bemg 
oppostd  to  polytheism  or  atheism  ?  This  is  what  the 
words  literally  mean  through  the  improper  collocation 
of  only.  He  ought  to  have  said,  "  Theism  can  be 
opposed  only  to  polytheism  or  atheism."  Inaccura- 
cies of  this  kind  occasion  httle  ambiguity  in  common 
discourse,  because  the  tone  and  emphasis  used  by 
the  speaker,  generally  make  the  meaning  perspicu 
ous.  But  in  writing,  where  a  person  speaks  to  tha 
eye,  he  ought  to  be  more  accurate ;  and  so  to  con- 
nect adverbs  with  the  words  they  qualify,  that  his 
meaning  cannot  be  mistaken  on  the  first  inspection. 

When  the  circumstance  is  inter^^osed  in  the  middle 


What  is  said  of  the  position  of  adverbs  T— Example  from  Addison. 
—Criticism  and  correction.— Example  from  Shaftsbury.— Criticism 
and  correction. — What  is  saii  of  inaccuracies  of  this  kind  in  com- 
luoiv discourse  .—In  writing  f 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 


69 


of  a  sentence,  it  sometimes  requires  attention  to  place 
it  in  such  a  manner  as  to  divest  it  ol"  all  ambiguity, 
for  instance,  "  are  tliese  designs,"'  says  Lord  Boling- 
broke,  "  which  anv  man,  who  is  born  a  Briton,  in  any 
circumstances,  in  any  situation,,  ought  to  be  ashamed 
or  afraid  to  avow  ?"  Here  we  are  in  doubt  whether 
the  phrases,  "  in  any  circumstances^  in  any  sitica- 
tiofi"  be  connected  with  "  a  man  born  in  Biitain  ;"  or 
with  that  man's  avoT\"ing  his  designs.  It'  the  latter, 
as  seems  most  lihely.  was  intended  to  be  the  mean- 
mg ;  the  arrangement  ought  to  be  this,  "  are  these 
desig-us,  which  anv  man  who  is  born  a  Briton,  ought 
to  be  ashamed  or  afraid,  in  any  circumstances,  in  any 
situation,  to  avow 

Still  more  attention  is  requisite  to  a  proper  dispo- 
sition of  the  relative  pronouns,  tvko,  icliich,  ichaL 
whose  ;  and  of  all  those  particles,  which  express  the 
connexion  of  the  parts  of  speech.  As  all  reasoning 
depends  upon  this  connexion,  we  cannot  be  too  accu- 
rate with  regard  to  it.  A  small  eiTor  may  obsciire  the 
meaning  of  a  whole  sentence ;  and  even  where  the 
meaning  is  apparent,  yet  if  these  relatives  be  mis- 
placed, we  always  find  something  awkward  and  dis- 
jointed in  the  strtictm-e  of  the  period.  The  following 
passage  in  Bishop  Sherlock's  Sermons  exemplify 
these  obseiwations :  "  It  is  folly  to  pretend  to  ami  our- 
selves against  the  accidents  of  life,  by  heaping  up 
treasm'es,  which  nothing  can  protect  us  ao-ainst,  but  the 
good  providence  of  our  Heavenly  Father."  Which ^ 
grammatically  refers  to  the  immediately  preceding 
noun,  whicli  here  is  "  treasm-es  and  this  would  con- 
vert the  whole  peiiod  mto  nonsense.  The  sentence 
should  have  been  thus  constructed ;  "  It  is  foUy  to  pre- 


What  is  said  of  a  circumstance  ■when  interposed  in  the  middle 
of  a  sentence  ? — Example  from  Bolingbroke. — Criticism  and  cor* 
rection. 

What  is  said  of  the  disposition  of  the  relative  pronouns? — Esam» 
pie  from  Bishop  Sherlock's  sermons. — Criticism  and  correction 


70 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 


tend,  by  heaping*  up  treasures,  to  arm  ourselves  against 
the  accidents  of  life,  against  which  nothing  can  protect 
us  but  the  good  providence  of  our  Heavenly  Father." 

We  now  proceed  to  the  second  quality  of  a  well- 
arranged  sentence,  which  we  termed  its  unity.  This 
is  a  capital  property.  The  very  nature  of  a  sentence 
implies  one  proposition  to  be  expressed.  It  may  con- 
sist of  parts  ;  but  these  parts  must  be  so  closely  bound 
together,  as  to  make  an  impression  of  one  object  only 
upon  the  mind.  . 

To  preserve  this  unity,  we  must  first  observe,  that 
efuring  the  course  of  the  sentence,  the  subject  should 
be  changed  as  little  as  possible. — There  is,  generally, 
in  every  sentence  some  person  or  thing,  which  is  the 
governing  word.  This  should  be  continued  so,  if 
possible,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  it.  Should 
a  man  express  himself  in  this  manner ;  "  after  we 
came  to  anchor,  they  put  me  on  shore,  where  I  was 
saluted  by  all  my  friends,  who  received  me  with  the 
greatest  kindness."  Though  the  objects  in  this  sen- 
tence are  sufficiently  connected ;  yet,  by  shifting  so 
often  the  subject  and  person,  tve,  they^  I,  and  wko^ 
they  appear  in  so  disunited  a  view,  that  the  sense  and 
connexion  are  nearly  lost. — The  sentence  is  restored 
to  its  proper  unity  by  constructing  it  thus  ;  "  having 
come  to  anchor,  I  was  put  on  shore,  where  I  was  sa- 
luted by  all  my  friends,  who  received  me  with  the 
gi-eatest  kindness." 

The  second  rule  is,  never  crov/d  into  one  sentence 
deas,  which  have  so  lictle  connexion,  that  they  might 
well  be  divided  into  ivvo  or  more  sentences. .  Violation 
of  this  rule  never  faiJs  to  displease  a  reader.  -  Its  effecx» 
indeed,  is  so  disgusting,  that  of  the  two  it  is  tho 


To  what  do  vre  now  proceed  ? — What  is  said  of  it? 

To  preserve  this  unity  what  must  be  observed  ?— What  5s  there 
generally  in  every  sentence  ?— Should  this  be  continued  V — ^''ii^<9 
coriect  the  example. 

What  is   the  second  rule  ?— What  is  said  of  its  violation  ? — 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 


11 


safest  extreme,  to  err  rather  by  too  many  sliort  sentfen- 
CGS,  than  by  one  that  is  overloaded  and  confused. 
The  follomng-  sentence  fi'om  a  translation  of  Plutarch 
will  justify  this  opinion  :  "  Their  march,"  says  the  au- 
thor, speaking  of  the  Greeks,  "  was  through  an  un- 
cultivated country,  whose  savage  inhabitants  fared 
hardly,  ha^dng  no  other  riches  than  a  breed  of  lean 
sheep,  whose  lesh  w^as  rank  and  unsavourj^,  by  reason 
of  their  continual  feeding  upon  sea  flesh."  Here  the 
subject  is  repeatedly  changed.  The  march  of  the 
Greeks,  the  desciiption  of  the  inhabitants,  through 
whose  country  they  passed,  the  account  of  their  sheep, 
and  the  reason  of  their  sheep  being  disagreeable  food, 
make  a  jumble  of  objects  shghtly  related  to  each  oth- 
er, which  the  reader  cannot  without  considerable  dif- 
ficulty comprehend  in  one  view. 

The  third  rule  for  preserving  the  unity  of  a  sen- 
tence is,  keep  clear  of  parentheses  in  the  middle  of  it 
These  may  on  some  occasions  have  a  spirited  appear- 
ance, as  prompted  by  a  certain  vivacity  of  thought, 
which  can  glance  happily  aside  as  it  is  going  along. 
But  in^general,  their  effect  is  extremely  bad  ;  being  a 
perplexed  method  of  disposing  of  some  thought,  which 
a  writer  has  not  art  enough  to  introduce  in  its  proper 
place.  It  is  needless  to  produce  any  instances,  as 
they  occur  so  frequently  among  incorrect  writers. 

The  fourth  rule  for  the  unity  of  a  sentence  is,^bnng 
it  to  a  full  and  perfect  close.  It  needs  not  to  be  ob- 
served, that  an  unfinished  sentence  is  no  sentence 
with  respect  to  gi*ammar.  But  sentences  often  occur, 
which  are  more  than  finished.  When  we  have  arriv- 
ed at  what  we  expected  to  be  the  conclusion  ;  when 
we  are  come  to  the  word,  on  which  the  mind  is  natu 


Which  is  the  safest  extreme  1 — Example  from  Plutarch. — Criti 
cism. 

What  is  the  third  rule  ? — Said  of  these  on  some  occasions  ? — 0£ 
their  effect  in  general  ? — Being  what  ? 

What  is  the  fourth  rule  1 — How  do  sentences  often  occur 
Example. — Criticism. 


72 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 


rally  led  to  rest ;  unexpectedly  some  circumstance  is 
added,  vvliich  ought  to  have  been  omitted  or  disposed 
of  elsewhere.  Thus,  for  instance,  in  the  following 
sentence  h^om  Sir  William  Temple,  the  adjection  to 
the  sentence  is  entirely  foreign  to  it.  Speaking  of 
Burnet's  Theory  of  the  Earth,  and  Fontenelle's  Plu 
rality  of  Worlds  :  "  The  fii-st,"  says  he,  "  could  not  end 
his  learned  treatise  without  a  panegyric  of  modern 
learning  in  comparison  of  the  ancient ;  and  the  other 
falls  so  grossly  into  the  censm^e  of  the  old  poetry,  and 
preference  of  the  new,  that  I  could  not  read  either  of 
these  strains  without  some  indignation  ;  which  no 
quality  among  men  is  so  apt  to  raise  in  me  as  self- 
sufficiency."  The  word  "  indignation"  concludes  the 
sentence ;  for  the  last  member  is  added  after  the 
proper  close. 


LECTURE  XII. 

STRUCTUKE  OF  SENTENCES. 

We  now  proceed  to  the  third  quality  of  a  correct 
sentence,  which  we  term  strength.  By  this  is  meant 
such  a  disposition  of  the  several  words  and  members, 
as  will  exhibit  the  sense  to  the  best  advantage ;  as 
"will  render  the  impression,  which  the  period  is  in- 
tended to  make,  most  fuU  and  complete ;  and  give 
"  every  word  and  every  member  its,  due  weight  and 
force.  To  the  production  of  this  effect,  perspicuity 
and  unity  are  absolutely  necessary ;  but  more  is  re- 
quisite.   For  a  sentence  may  be  clear ;  it  may  also 


What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  is  the  third  quality  of  a  correct  sentence  ?— What  is  meant 
ty  this  ? — What  is  necessary  to  produce  this  effect  ? — What  more  is 
liecessary  ? 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 


73 


be  compact,  or  have  the  requisite  unity  ;  and  yet,  by 
some  unfavourable  circumstance  in  the  structure,  it 
may  fail  in  that  strength  or  liveliness  of  impression, 
which  a  more  happy  collocation  would  produce. 

The  first  rule  for  promoting  the  strength  of  a  sen- 
tence is,  take  from  it  all  redundant  words.  Whatev- 
er can  be  easily  supphed  in  the  mind,  is  better  omitted 
in  the  expression  ;  thus,  "  content  with  deserving  a 
tiiumph,  he  refused  the  honour  of  it,"  is  better  than 
"  being  content  with  deserving  a  triumph,  he  refused 
the  honour  of  it."  It  is  one  of  the  most  useful  ex- 
ercises on  reviewing  what  we  have  written,  to  con- 
tract that  circuitous  mode  of  expression,  and  to  cut 
off  those  useless  excrescences,  which  are  usually  found 
in  the  first  draught.  But  we  must  be  cautious  of 
pruning  so  closely  as  to  give  a  haixlness  and  dryness 
to  the  style.  Some  leaves  must  be  left  to  shelter  and 
adorn  the  fruit. 

As  sentences  should  be  cleared  of  superfluous 
words,  so  also  of  superfluous  membei's.  Opposed  to 
this,  is  the  fault  we  frequently  meet,  the  last  member 
of  a  period  being  only  a  repetition  of  the  former  in  a 
different  dress.  For  example,  speaking  of  beauty, 
"  the  very  first  discovery  of  it,"  says  Addison,  "  strikes 
the  mind  with  inward  joy,  and  spreads  dehght  througli 
all  its  faculties."  In  this  instance,  scarcely  any  thing 
is  added  by  the  second  member  of  the  sentence  to 
what  was  expressed  in  the  fu-st.  Though  the  flowing 
style  of  Addison  may  palKate  such  negligence;  yet 
it  is  generally  true,  that  language  divested  of  this  pro- 
lixity, is  more  strong  and  beautiful. 

The  second  rule  for  promoting  the  strength  of  a 
sentence  is,  pay  particular  attention  to  the  use  of  co- 


Wh&t  is  the  first  rule  ?— Illustrate.— What  is  a  useful  exercise  ? — 
Of  what  must  we  be  cautious  ? 

Of  what  else  should  a  sentence  be  cleared  ?— Example. — E»> 
marks. 

What  is  the  second  rule  ? 

1 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 


piilative3,  relatives,  and  particles,  employed  for  tran- 
sition and  connexion.  Some  observations  on  this 
subject,  which  appear  useful,  shall  be  mentioned. 

What  is  termed  splitting  of  particles,  or  separating 
a  preposition  from  the  noun,  which  it  governs,  is  ever 
to  be  avoided.  For  example,  "though  virtue  borrows 
no  assistance  from,  yet  it  may  often  be  accompanied 
'by,  the  advantages  of  fortune."  In  such  instances  we 
suffer  pain  from  the  violent  separation  of  two  things, 
which  by  nature  are  closely  united. 

The  strength  of  a  sentence  is  much  injured  by  an 
unnecessary  multiplication  of  relative  and  demonstra- 
tive particles.  If  a  writer  say,  "there  is  nothing 
which  disgusts  me  sooner,  than  the  empty  pomp  of 
language  ;"  he  expresses  himself  less  forcibly,  than  if 
he  had  said,  "  nothing  disgusts  me  sooner,  than  the 
empty  pomp  of  language."  The  former  mode  of  ex- 
'pression  in  the  introduction  of  a  subject,  or  in  laying 
down  a  proposition  to  which  particular  attention  is 
demanded,  is  very  proper  ;  but  in  ordinary  discourses 
the  latter  is  far  preferable. 

With  regard  to  the  relative  we  shall  only  observe, 
that  in  conversation  and  epistolary  wi'iting  it  may  be 
omitted ;  but  in  compositions  of  a  serious  or  dignified 
kind,  it  should  constantly  be  inserted. 

On  the  copulative  particle  and,  which  occurs  so 
■often,  several  observations  are  to  be  made.  It  is  e\'i- 
dent,  that  an  unnecessary  repetition  of  it  enfeebles 
style.  By  omitting  it  we  often  make  a  closer  con- 
nexion, a  quicker  succession  of  objects,  than  when  it 
is  inserted  between  them.  "  Veni,  vidi,  vici,''^  ex- 
presses with  more  spirit  the  rapidity  of  conquest,  than 


What  is  ever  to  be  avoided? — Example.— How  do  we  suffer  pain 
from  such  instances  ? 
How  is  the  strength  of  a  sentence  injured  ? — Illustrate. — When  is 

the  former  mode  proper  ] 
What  is  said  in  regard  to  the  relative  ? 

On  what  are  several  observations  to  be  made  ? — How  does  it  enfee- 
ble style  ]— What  effect   does  the  omission  of  it  produce  ?— Ex- 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 


15 


if  connecting  particles  had  been  used.  Wlien,  how- 
ever, we  wish  to  prevent  a  quick  transition  fi'om  one 
object  to  another;  and  when  enumerating  objects 
which  we  wish  to  appear  as  distinct  from  each  other 
as  possible ;  copulatives  may  be  multiplied  with  pe- 
culiar advantage.  Thus  Lord  Bolingbroke  says  with 
propriety,  "  such  a  man  might  fall  a  victim  to  power ; 
but  truth,  and  reason,  and  liberty,  would  fall  with  him." 

The  third  rule  for  promoting  the  strength  of  a  sen- 
tence is,  dispose  of  the  principal  word  or  words  in 
that  part  of  the  sentence,  where  they  wil]  make  the 
•  most  striking  impression.  Perspicuity  ought  fii'st  to 
"be  studied  ;  and  the  nature  of  our  language  allows  no 
great  liberty  of  collocation.  In  general,  the  impor- 
tant words  are  placed  at  the  beginning  of  a  sentence. 
Thus  Mr.  Addison ;  "  the  pleasures  of  the  imagina- 
tion taken  in  then-  full  extent,  are  not  so  gross  as  those 
of  sense ;  nor  so  refined  as  those  of  the  understand- 
ing." This  order  seem.s  to  be  the  most  plain  and 
natural.  Sometimes,  however,  when  we  propose  giv- 
ing weight  to  a  sentence,  it  is  useful  to  suspend  the 
meaning  a  httle,  and  then  to  biing  it  out  fully  at  the 
close.  "Thus,"  says  Pope,  "on  whatever  side  we 
contemplate  Homer,  what  principally  strikes  us,  is  his 
wonderful  invention." 

The  fourth  rule  for  pi'omoting  the  strength  of  sen- 
tences is,  make  the  members  of  them  go  on  rising  in 
their  importance  one  above  another.  This  kind  of 
arrangement  is  called  a  climax,  and  is  ever  regarded 
as  a  beauty  in  composition.  Why  it  pleases  is  sufii- 
ciently  evident.    In  all  things  we  love  to  advance  to 


ample.— When  may  copulatives  be  multiplied  with  advantage  ? — 
Example. 

What  is  the  third  rule  ? — What  ought  first  to  he  studied  ? — What 
does  not  the  nature  of  our  langi;agf  allow  ? — How  are  the  impor- 
tant words  generally  placed  ?— Example. — Remarks. — What  is  useful 
■when  we  propose  gi\ing  weight  to  a  sentence  ?— Example. 

What  is  the  fourth  rule  J— What  is  this  calk-d? — How  is  it  re- 
garded?—Why  does  it  please?— What  does  Quintilian  say?— A 


16 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 


what  is  more  and  more  beautiful,  rather  than  to  fol- 
low a  retawrade  order.  Havino^  viewed  some  consi- 
derable  object,  we  cannot  without  pain  descend  to  an 
inferior  circumstance.  "  Cavendum  est,''^  says  Quin- 
tilian,  "  ne  descrescat  oratio,  et fortior  suhjungatur  ali- 
quid  injirmius."  A  weak  assertion  should  never  fol- 
low a  stronger  one ;  and,  when  a  sentence  consists  of 
two  members,  the  longest  should  in  general  be  the 
concluding  one.  Periods,  thus  divided,  are  pro- 
nounced more  easily ;  and,  the  shortest  member  be- 
ing placed  first,  we  carry  it  more  readily  in  our  me- 
mory, as  we  proceed  to  the  second,  and  see  the  con- 
nexion of  the  two  more  clearly.  Thus  to  say,  "  When 
our  passions  have  forsaken  us,  we  flatter  ourselves 
with  the  belief  that  we  have  forsaken  them,"  is  both 
more  graceful  and  more  persj)icuous,  than  to  begin 
with  the  longest  part  of  the  proposition  ;  "  We  flatter 
ourselves  with  the  belief  that  we  have  forsaken  our 
passions,  when  they  have  forsaken  us." 

The  fifth  rule  for  constructing  sentences  with 
strength  is,  avoid  concluding  them  with  an  adverb,  a 
preposition,  or  any  insignificant  word.  By  such  con- 
clusions, style  is  always  weakened  and  degraded. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  where  the  stress  and  significancy 
rest  chiefly  upon  words  of  this  kind,  they  ought  to 
have  the  principal  place  allotted  them.  No  fault,  for 
example,  can  be  found  with  this  sentence  of  Boling- 
broke ;  "  In  their  prosperity  my  fi-iends  shall  never 
hear  of  me ;  in  their  adversity  always ;"  where  never 
and  always,  being  emphatical  words,  are  so  placed,  as 
to  make  a  strong  impression.  But,  when  these  in 
ferior  parts  of  speech  are  introduced,  as  circumstan- 


weak  assertion  should  never  foUo-w  what  ? — When  a  sentence  con- 
Bists  of  two  members,  which  should  be  the  concluding  one  I — What 
are  the  benefits  of  this  arrangement  ? — Illustrate. 

What  is  the  fifth  rule  ? — What  is  the  effect  of  such  conclusions 
— When  ought  they  to  have  the  principal  place  allotted  them  ?— 
Example. — Remarks  — What  is  farther  said  of  these  parts  of 
speech  I 


STRUCTURE  OF  SEXTE^CES. 


77 


ces,  or  as  qualifieations  of  more  important  ^-ords,  tliey 
should  always  be  disposed  of  in  the  least  conspicuous 
parts  of  the  period. 

"We  sh'juld  always  avoid  concluding  a  sentence  or 
member  with  any  of  those  particles,  which  distinguish 
the  cases  of  nouns  ;  as  q/",  to^  from,  with,  hj.  Thus 
t  is  much  better  to  say,  "  avarice  is  a  crime  of  which 
wise  men  are  often  g-uilty,"  than  to  say,  "  avarice  is  a 
crime,  which  -wise  men  are  often  guilty  o£"  This  is 
a  phi-aseology  which  all  correct  writei-s  shun. 

A  complex  verb,  compounded  of  a  simple  verb  and 
a  subsequent  preposition,  is  also  an  ungraceiiil  con- 
clusion of  a  period ;  as,  bring  about,  clear  up,  give 
over,  and  many  others  of  the  same  kind  ;  instead  of 
which,  if  a  simple  verb  be  employed,  it  will  terminate 
the  sentence  with  more  strength.  Even  the  pronomi 
it,  especially  when  joiued  with  some  of  the  preposi- 
tions, as,  with  it,  in  it,  to  it,  cannot  vrithout  violation 
of  grace  be  the  conclusion  of  a  sentence.  Any  phrase 
which  expresses  a  circumstance  onlv,  cannot  conclude 
a  sentence  without  gTeat  inelegance.  Cir>:umstances, 
indeed,  are'  like  imshapely  stones  in  a  building,  which 
try  the  skill  of  an  artist,  where  to  place  them  \\dth  the 
least  offence.  We  should  not  crowd  too  many  of 
them  together  ;  but  rather  intersperse  them  in  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  sentence,  joined  with  the  principal 
words  on  which  they  depend.  Thus,  for  instance, 
when  Dean  Swift  says,  "  what  I  had  the  honom*  of 
mentioning  to  your  lordship  some  time  ago  in  conver- 
sation, was  not  a  new  th' aig-lit  f  these  two  circum 
stances,  sorne  tirne  ago,  and  in  conversation,  which  are 
joined,  woidd  have  been  better  separated  thus  ;  "  w  ha 


What  should  always  avoid  :  —  Illustrate. — Who  shun  this 
phraseology  1 

What  is  also  an  ungraceful  conclusion  of  a  period  ? — What  will 
terminate  the  sentence  with  mere  strength  : — What  is  said  of  the 
pronoun  t7  7— Of  any  phrase  which  expresses  a  circumstance  only  ? — 
What  are  circumstances  hke  1 — What  should  we  do  with  them 
Example. — Correct. 

7* 


78 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 


I  had  tlie  honour  some  time  ago  of  mentioning  to  your 
brdship  in  conversation." 

The  sixth  and  last  rule  concernino;  the  strenccth  of  a 
sentence  is  this;  in  the  members  of  it,  where  two 
things  are  compared  or  contrasted ;  where  either  re- 
semblance or  opposition  is  to  be  expressed ;  some  re 
semblance  in  the  language  and  construction  ought  tc 
be  observed.  The  following  passage  from  Pope's  pre- 
face to  his  Homer,  beautifully  exemplifies  this  rule. 
"  Homer  was  the  greater  genius ;  Virgil  the  better  ar- 
tist ;  in  the  one  we  admire  the  man ;  in  the  other  the 
work.  Homer  hurries  us  with  a  commanding  impet- 
uosity ;  Virgil  leads  us  with  an  attractive  majesty 
Homer  scatters  with  a  generous  profusion  ;  Virgil  be- 
stows with  a  careful  magnificence.  Homer,  like  the 
Nile,  poui's  out  his  riches  with  a  sudden  overthrow ; 
Virgil,  like  a  river  in  its  banks,  with  a  constant  stream. 
When  we  look  upon  their  machines.  Homer  seems 
like  his  own  Jupiter  in  his  terrors,  shaking  Olympus, 
scattering  lightning,  and  firing  the  heavens.  Virgil 
hke  the  same  power  in  his  benevolence,  counselling 
with  the  gods,  lapng  plans  for  empires,  and  ordering 
his  whole  creation."  Periods,  thus  constructed,  when 
introduced  with  propriety,  and  not  too  frequently  re- 
peated, have  a  sensible  beauty.  But,  if  such  a  con- 
struction be  aimed  at  in  every  sentence,  it  betrays 
into  a  disagreeable  uniformity,  and  produces  a  regular 
jingle  in  the  period,  which  tires  the  ear,  and  plainly 
disco vei^s  affectation. 


What  is  the  sixth  and  last  rule  ? — Example. — W^hat  is  said  of  pe 
riods  thus  constructed  ^  -What  if  such  construction  be  aimed  at  i 
erery  sentence  ? 


[79] 


LECTURE  XIII. 
STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.— HARMONY. 

Havixg  considered  sentences  with  regard  to  tlie't 
meaning  under  the  heads  of  Perspicuity,  Unity,  and 
Strength  ;  we  shall  now  consider  them  with  respect 
to  their  Sound. 

In  the  harmony  of  periods  two  things  are  to  be 
considered.  First,  agreeable  sound  or  modulation  in 
general,  ^dthout  any  particular  expression.  iSText,  the 
sound  so  ordered  as  to  become  expressive  of  the  sense. 
The  fii'st  is  the  more  common  ;  the  second  the  supe- 
rior beauty. 

The  beauty  of  musical  construction  depends  upon 
the  choice  and  arrangement  of  words.  Those  words 
are  most  pleasing  to  the  ear,  which  are  composed  of 
smooth  and  hqiiid  sounds,  in  which  there  is  a  proper 
intermixture  of  vowels  and  consonants  without  too 
many  harsh  consonants,  or  too  many  open  vowels  in 
succession.  Long  words  are  generally  more  pleasing 
to  the  ear  than  monosyllables ;  and  those  are  the  most 
musical,  which  are  not  whoUy  composed  of  long  or 
short  syllables,  but  of  an  intermixture  of  them ;  such 
as  delight^  amuse,  velocity,  celerity,  beautiful,  impe- 
tuosity. If  the  words,  however,  which  compose  a 
entence,  be  ever  so  well  chosen  and  harmonious; 
yet,  if  they  be  unskilfully  arranged,  its  music  is  entire- 
y  lost.  As  an  instance  of  a  musical  sentence,  we  may 
^ake  the  following  from  Milton  ;  "  We  shah  conduct 


"What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  has  been  considered  ?— How  are  we  now  to  consider  them  ? 

In  the  harmony  of  periods,  what  two  things  are  to  be  considered? 

What  does  the  beauty  of  musical  construction  depend  upon  ? — 
What  words  are  most  pleasing  to  the  ear  'i — Example.— What  if 
the  words  are  unskilfully  arranged? — What  instance  of  a  musicai 
sentence  is  giren  ?— What  is  said  of  it  ] 


80 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 


you  to  a  hill  si.le,  laborious  indeed  at  tlie  first  ascent ; 
but  else  so  smooth,  so  gi-een,  so  full  of  goodly  pros- 
pects and  melodious  sounds  on  every  side,  that  the 
harp  of  Orpheus  was  not  more  charming."  Every 
thing  in  this  sentence  conspires  to  render  it  harmoni- 
ous. The  words  are  well  chosen ;  laborious^  smooth^ 
green,  goodly,  melodious,  charming  ;  and  so  happily 
arranged  that  no  alteration  can  be  made  without  in- 
juring the  melody. 

There  are  two  things  on  which  the  music  of  a  sen 
tence  principally  depends  ;  these  are,  the  proper  dis- 
tribution of  the  several  members  of  it,  and  the  close 
or  cadence  of  the  whole. 

First,  the  distribution  of  the  several  members  should 
be  carefully  regarded.  Whatever  is  easy  to  the  or- 
gans of  speech,  is  always  grateful  to  the  ear.  While 
a  period  advances,  the  termination  of  each  member 
forms  a  pause  in  the  pronunciation ;  and  these  pauses 
should  be  so  distributed,  as  to  bear  a  certain  musical 
proportion  to  each  other.  This  will  be  best  illiisffated 
by  examples.  "This  discourse  concerning  the  easi- 
ness of  God's  commands,  does  all  along  suppose  and 
acknowledge  the  difficulties  of  the  first  entrance  upon 
a  religious  course  ;  except  only  in  those  persons  who 
have  had  the  happiness  to  be  trained  up  to  rehgion 
by  the  easy  and  insensible  degrees  of  a  pious  and 
virtuous  education."  This  sentence  is  ftir  from  being 
harmonious ;  owing  chiefly  to  this,  that  there  is  but 
one  pause  in  it,  by  which  it  is  divided  into  two  mem- 
bers ;  each  of  which  is  so  long,  as  to  require  a  con 
siderable  stretch  of  breath  in  pronouncing  it.  On  the 
contrary,  let  us  observe  the  grace  of  the  following 
passage  from  Sir  William  Temple,  in  which  he  speaks 
sarcastically  of  man.  "  But,  God  be  thanked,  his 
pride  is  greater  than  his  ignorance ;  and  what  he  wants 

Upon-what  does  the  music  of  a  sentence  principally  depend? 

What  is  the  first  ? — Example. — What  is  said  of  this  sentence  ? 
—Example  from  Sir  William  Temple.— Remarks.— What  is  apt  to 
savour  of  affectation  ' 


HARMONY.  81 

in  knowledge,  lie  supplies  by  sufSciency.  Wlien  he 
has  looked  about  bim  as  far  as  be  can,  be  concludes 
tbere  is  no  more  to  be  seen  ;  when  be  is  at  tbe  end 
of  bis  line,  be  is  at  tbe  bottom  of  tbe  ocean  ;  ^vben  be 
bas  sbot  bis  best,  be  is  sm-e  none  ever  did,  or  ever  can 
sboot  better,  or  beyond  it.  His  own  reason  be  holds 
to  be  tbe  certain  measure  of  truth ;  and  bis  own  know- 
ledge, of  what  is  possible  in  nature."  Here  every 
thing  is  at  once  easy  to  tbe  breath,  and  grateful  to 
the  ear.  We  must,  however,  observe,  that  if  compo- 
sition abound  with  sentences  which  have  too  many 
rests,  and  these  placed  at  intervals  apparently  meas- 
lu-ed  and  regular,  it  is  apt  to  savour  of  affectation. 

Tbe  next  thing  which  demands  attention  is  tbe 
close  or  cadence  of  the  period.  The  only  important 
rule,  which  can  here  be  gi^'en,  is  this,  when  we  aim 
at  dignity  or  elevation,  the  sound  should  increase  to 
the  last ;  the  longest  members  of  tbe  period,  and  tbe 
fullest  and  most  sonorous  words,  should  be  reserved 
for  the  conclusion.  As  an  instance  of  this,  the  fol- 
lowing sentence  of  x\ddison  may  be  given.  "  It  fills 
tbe  mind  with  tbe  largest  variety  of  ideas  ;  converses 
vdth  its  objects  at  tbe  greatest  distance ;  and  conti- 
nues tbe  longest  in  action  ^vitbout  being  tired  or 
satiated  with  its  proper  enjoyments."  Here  every 
reader  must  be  sensible  of  beauty  in  tbe  just  distribu- 
tion of  the  pauses,  and  m  tbe  manner  of  rounding  tbe 
period,  and  of  bringing  it  to  a  full  and  harmonious 
close. 

It  may  be  remarked,  that  little  words  in  the  con 
elusion  of  a  sentence  are  as  injiuious  to  melody,  aa 
they  are  inconsistent  with  strength  of  expression.  A 
musical  close  in  our  language  seems  in  general  to  re- 
quire either  tbe  last  syUable,  or  tbe  last  but  one,  to 

"WTiat  is  the  next  thing?— What  rule  is  given  ?—E  sample.— What 
is  said  of  it  ? 

V\Tiat  is  said  of  little  words  at  the  conclusion  of  a  sentence  ' — 
What  does  a  musical  close  in  our  language  require  ■ — What  is  said 
of  words  which  chiefly  consist  of  short  syllables  ? 


82  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 

be  a  long  syllable.  Words  whicli  consist  chiefly  of 
short  syllables,  as  contrary^  particular^  retrospect^  sel- 
dom terminate  a  sentence  harmoniously,  unless  a 
previous  run  of  long  syllables  have  rendered  them 
pleasing  to  the  ear. 

Sentences,  however,  which  are  so  constructed,  as 
to  make  the  sound  always  swell  toward  the  end,  and 
rest  either  on  the  last  or  penult  syllable,  give  a  dis 
«ourse  the  tone  of  declamation.  If  melody  be  not 
varied,  the  ear  is  soon  cloyed  with  it.  Sentences  con- 
structed in  the  same  manner,  with  the  pauses  at  equal 
intervals,  should  never  succeed  each  other.  Short 
sentences  must  be  blended  with  long  and  swelling 
ones,  to  render  discourse  sprightly  as  well  as  mag- 
nificent. 

We  now  proceed  to  treat  of  a  higher-  species  of 
harmony  ;  the  sound  adapted  to  the  sense.  Of  this 
we  may  remark  two  degrees.  First,  the  current  of 
sound  suited  to  the  tenor  of  a  discourse.  Next,  a  pe- 
culiar resemblance  effected  between  some  object,  and 
the  sounds  that  are  employed  in  describing  it. 

Sounds  have  in  many  respects  an  intimate  corres- 
pondence with  our  ideas  ;  partly  natural,  partly  pro- 
duced by  artificial  associations.  Hence,  any  one  mo- 
dulation of  sound  continued,  stamps  on  style  a  certain 
character  and  expression.  Sentences,  constructed 
with  Ciceronian  fulness,  excite  an  idea  of  what  is 
anportant,  magnificent,  and  sedate.  But  they  suit  no 
violent  passion,  no  eager  reasoning,  no  famihar  ad- 
dress.   These  require  measures  brisker,  easier,  and 


What  sentences  give  a  discourse  a  tone  of  declamation  ?— What 
if  melody  be  not  varied? — What  sentences  should  not  succeed 
each  other  1 — Why  must  short  sentences  be  blended  with  long 
ones  ? 

What  are  we  now  to  proceed  to  treat  of  ? — What  are  the  two 
degrees  ? 

What  haven  sounds  ? — what? — What  do  sentences  con- 
Btructed  with  Ciceronian  fulness  excite?— What  do  they  not  suit  ? 
—What  do  these  require  ? — What  would  be  absurd  ? 


HAHMONY. 


83 


often  more  abrupt.  It  were  as  absurd  to  write  a 
panegyric  and  an  invective  in  a  style  of  tlie  same 
cadence,  as  to  set  the  words  of  a  tender  love  song  to 
tlie  tune  of  a  warlike  march. 

Beside  the  general  correspondence  of  the  current 
of  sound  with  the  current  of  thought,  a  more  particu 
lar  expression  of  certain  objects  by  resembling  sounds 
may  be  attempted.  In  poetry  this  resemblance  is 
chiefly  to  be  sought.  It  obtains  sometimes,  indeed, 
in  prose  composition  ;  but  there  in  an  inferior  de- 
gree. 

The  sounds  of  words  may  be  employed  for  repre- 
senting chiefly  three  classes  of  objects ;  first,  other 
sounds ;  secondly,  motions  ;  and  thirdly,  the  emotions 
and  passions  of  the  mind. 

In  most  languages,  the  names  of  many  particular 
sounds  are  so  formed,  as  to  bear  some  resemblance  of 
the  sound  which  they  signify  ;  as  with  us  the  ivhistling 
of  winds,  the  buzz  and  hum  of  insects,  the  hiss  of  ser- 
pents, and  the  crash  of  falling  thnber  ;  and  many  other 
instances,  where  the  name  is  plainly  adapted  to  the 
sound  it  represents.  A  remarkable  instance  of  this 
beauty  may  be  taken  from  two  passages  in  Milton's 
Paradise  Lost ;  in  one  of  which  he  describes  the 
sound,  made  by  the  opening  of  the  gates  of  hell ;  in 
the  other,  that  made  by  the  opening  of  the  gates  of 
heaven.  The  contrast  between  the  two  exhibits  to 
great  advantage  the  art  of  the  poet.  The  first  is  the 
opening  of  hell's  gates  ; 

 On  a  sudden,  open  fly, 

With  impetuous  recoil  and  jarring  sound, 
The  infernal  doors  ;  and  on  their  hinges  grate 
Harsh  thunder.—  


VVhat  may  be  attempted  ? — Where  Is  this  resemblance  to  be 
Bought 

What  may  the  sounds  of  Tvords  be  employed  for  representing  ? 
How  are  many  sounds  formed  in  most  languages  ? — Where  may 
be  found  an  example  of  this  beauty  ? — Cite  the  examples. 


84 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 


Observe  the  smootliness  of  tlie  otlier  : 

 Heaven  opened  wide 

Her  ever  during  gates,  harmonious  sound ! 
On  golden  hinges  turning.  

In  the  second  place,  tlie  sound  of  words  is  frequent- 
ly employed  to  imitate  motion  ;  as  it  is  swift  or  slow 
violent  or  gentle,  uniform  or  interrupted,  easy  or  ac 
companied  with,  effort.  Between  sound  and  motion 
there  is  no  natural  aflSnity ;  yet  in  the  imagination 
there  is  a  strong  one ;  as  is  evident  from  the  connexion 
between  music  and  dancing.  The  poet  can  therefore 
give  us  a  lively  idea  of  the  kind  of  motion  he  would 
describe,  by  the  help  of  sounds  which  in  our  imagina- 
tion correspond  with  that  motion.  Long  syllables 
naturally  excite  an  idea  of  slow  motion ;  as  in  this 
line  of  Vu'gil, 

0111  inter  sese  magna  vi  brachia  tollunt. 

A  succession  of  short  syllables  gives  the  impres- 
sion of  quick  motion ;  as, 

Sed  fugit  interea,  fugit  irreparabile  tempus. 

The  works  of  Homer  and  Virgil  abound  with  in- 
stances of  this  beauty ;  which  are  so  often  quoted,  and 
so  well  known,  that  it  is  unnecessary  to  produce  them. 

The  third  set  of  objects,  which  the  sound  of  words 
is  capable  of  representing,  consists  of  emotions  and 
passions  of  the  mind.  Between  sense  and  sound  there 
appears  to  be  no  natural  resemblance.  But  if  the  ar- 
T  ingement  of  syllables  by  their  sound  alone  recall  one 
Bet  of  ideas  more  readily  than  pnother,  and  dispose 

How  is  the  sound  of  words  frequently  employed  ?— Is  there  a 
natural  affinity  between  sound  and  words  » — Is  there  in  the  imagi- 
nation?—As  is  evident  from  what  ? — What  can  the  poet  do  there- 
fore ? — What  idea  do  long  syllables  naturally  excite  ? — Example. 

What  impression  does  a  succession  of  short  syllables  give  ? — 
Example. 

In  whose  works  do  instances  of  this  be&uty  abound  ? 
In  what  consists  the  third  set  of  objects  ? — Is  there  a  resemblance 
between  sense  and  sound  ? — When  may  an  arrangement  of  syl- 


FIGURATIVE  LAXGUAGE.  85 

tlie  mind  for  entering  into  that  affection  ^liicli  tlie 

poet  intends  to  raise ;  such  aiTangement  may  vriXh 
proprietv  be  said  to  resemlue  the  s^nse.  Thus,  vihen 
pleasure,  joy,  and  agi'eeable  objects,  are  described  by 
one  vho  feeis  his  "subject,  the  Language  natiurally 
uns  in  smooth,  hquid  and  flowing  numbers. 

 —  Xamque  ipsa  decoram 

Caesariem  nato  genetrix.  lumenque  juventaa 
Piirpureuiii,  et  laetos  ocuLLs  affiarat  honores. 

Brisk  and  hvely  sensations  exact  quicker  and  more 
animated  numbers. 

 JuTemua.  mainis  emicat  ardens 

.  Littus  in  Hesperium. 

Mehancholy  and  gloomy  subjects  are  natm-ahy 
'connected  with  slow  measm-es  and  long  words. 

In  those  deep  solitudes  and  a'vrful  cells. 
Where  heaxenlv  pensire  contemplation  dwells. 

Abundant  instances  of  this  kind  are  suggested  by 
a  moderate  acquaintance  with  good  poets,  either  an- 
cient or  modern. 


LECTURE  XIV. 

OEIGIX  AXD  XATURE  OF  PIGURATITE 
LAXGUAGE. 

Figures  may  be  described  to  be  that  language 
which  is  prompted  either  by  the  imaghiarion  or  pas- 
sions.    They  are  commonly  di\ided  by  rhetoricians 

lahles  be  said  to  resemhle  the  sense? — When  pleasnre,  joy,  <tc., 
are  described,  how  does  language  naturally  run  ? — Example. 

What  do  brisk  and  lively  sensations  exact  ? — ^Example. 

What  are  melancholy  and  gloomy  subjects  naturally  connected 
with  1 — Example. 

Abundant  instances  of  this  kind  are  suggested  by  what ' 


What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

Figures  may  be  described  to  be  what  ?— How  are  they  diyided  ? 
S 


86 


ORIGIN  AND  NATURE  OF 


into  two  great  classes,  figures  of  words,  and  figures  of 
thought.  The  former  are  commonly  called  tropes, 
and  consist  in  a  word's  being  used  to  signify  some- 
thing different  from  its  original  meaning.  Hence,  if 
the  word  be  changed,  the  figure  is  destroyed.  Thus, 
for  instance,  "  light  ariseth  to  the  upright  in  darkness." 
Here,  the  trope  consists  in  "  light  and  darkness  "  not 
being  taken  literally,  but  substituted  for  comfort  in 
adversity ;  to  which  conditions  of  life  they  are  sup- 
posed to  bear  some  resemblance.  The  other  class, 
termed  figures  of  thought,  supposes  the  figure  to  con- 
sist in  the  sentiment  only,  while  the  words  are  used 
in  their  literal  sense;  as  in  exclamations,  interroga- 
tions, apostrophes,  and  comparisons ;  where,  though 
the  words  be  varied,  or  translated  from  one  language 
into  another,  the  same  figure  is  still  preserved.  This 
distinction,  however,  is  of  small  importance ;  as  prac- 
tice cannot  be  assisted  by  it ;  nor  is  it  always  very 
perspicuous. 

Tropes  are  derived  in  part  from  the  barrenness  of 
language  ;  but  principally  from  the  influence  which 
the  imagination  has  over  all '  language.  The  imagi- 
nation never  contemplates  any  one  idea  or  object  as 
single  and  alone ;  but  as  accompanied  by  others, 
which  may  be  considered  as  its  accessories.  These 
accessories  often  operate  more  forcibly  upon  the  mind, 
than  the  principal  idea  itself.  They  are,  perhaps,  in 
their  nature  more  aOTeeable,  or  more  familiar  to  our 
conceptions ;  or  remind  us  of  a  greater  variety  of  m> 
portant  circumstances.  Hence  the  name  of  the  ac- 
cessory or  correspondent  idea  is  substituted  ;  although 
the  principal  has  a  proper  and  well  known  name  of  its 


—The  form  er  is  called  what  ?— Consists  in  what  ? — Hence  what  ? 
—Illustrate.— What  is  said  of  the  other  class  ?— Is  this  distinctioa 
of  importance      Why  ? 

What  are  tropes  derived  from?— TIow  are  ideas  or  objects  con- 
templated by  the  imagination  ?— What  is  said  of  these  accessories  ? 
— Illustrate. 


FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE. 


87 


own.  Thus,  for  example,  -sylien  we  design  to  point 
out  the  period,  in  which  a  state  enjoyed  most  reputa- 
tion or  glory,  we  might  easily  employ  the  proper 
words  for  expressing  this  ;  but,  as  this,  in  our  imagi- 
nation is  readily  connected  with  the  flourishing  period 
of  a  plant  or  tree,  we  prefer  this  correspondent  idea, 
and  say,  "  The  Roman  empire  flourished  most  under 
Augustus."  The  leader  of  a  faction  is  a  plain  expres- 
sion ;  but,  because  the  'head  is  the  principal  part  of 
the  human  body,  and  is  supposed  to  direct  all  the 
animal  operations  ;  resting  on  this  resemblance,  we 
say,  "  Cataline  was  the  head  of  his  party." 

We  shall  now  examine,  why  tropes  and  figures 
conti'ibute  to  the  beauty  arid  gi-ace  of  style.  By  them 
language  is  enriched,  and  made  more  copious.  Hence 
words  and  phrases  are  multiplied  for  expressing  all 
sorts  of  ideas;  for  describing  even  the  smallest  dif- 
ferences ;  the  nicest  shades  and  colom^s  of  thought ; 
which  by  proper  words  alone  cannot  possibly  be  ex- 
pressed. They  also  give  dignity  to  style,  which  is 
degraded  by  the  familiarity  of  common  words. — 
Figures  have  the  same  effect  on  language,  that  a  rich 
and  splendid  apparel  has  on  a  person  of  rank  and  dig- 
nity. In  prose  compositions,  assistance  of  this  kind 
is  often  requisite ;  to  poetry  it  is  essential.  To  say, 
"  the  sun  rises,"  is  common  and  trite ;  but  it  becomes 
a  magnificent  image,  as  expressed  by  Thomson : 

I            But  yonder  comes  the  powerful  king  of  day, 
Rejoicing  in  the  east.  

Figures  furnish  the  pleasure  of  enjoying  two  ob- 
jects, presented  at  the  same  time  to  our  view,  without 
confusion  ;  the  principal  idea  together  with  its  acces- 
sory, which  gives  it  the  figurative  appearance.  AVhen, 


What  shall  we  now  examine  ? — By  them  language  is  what  ? — 
Hence  what  ? — What  do  they  also  give  to  style  ? — What  effect  do 
figui-os  have  upon  language  ? — In  what  compositions  is  assistance 
of  this  kind  requisite  ?— In  what  is  it  essential  ^ — Illustrate 

What  do  figures  furnish  ?— Example. 


88 


ORIGIN  AND  NATURE  OF 


for  example,  instead  of  "youtli,"  we  say  "the  morn- 
ing of  life ;"  the  fo.ncy  is  instantly  entertained  with 
all  the  corresponding  circumstances  between  these 
two  objects.  At  the  same  instant  we  behold  a  certain 
period  of  human  hfe,  and  a  certain  time  of  the  day 
so  connected,  that  the  imagination  plays  between  them 
with  delight,  and  views  at  once  two  similar  objects 
without  embarrassment. 

Figures  are  also  attended '  with  the  additional  ad- 
\'antage  of  giving  us  a  more  clear  and  striking  view 
of  the  principal  object,  than  if  it  were  expressed  in 
simple  terms,  and  freed  from  its  accessory  idea.  They 
exhibit  the  object,  oh  which  they  are  employed,  in  a 
picturesque  form ;  they  render  an  abstract  conception 
in  some  degree  an  object  of  sense ;  they  surround  it 
with  circumstances,  which  enable  the  mind  to  lay 
hold  of  it  steadily,  and  to  contemplate  it  fully.  By  a 
well  adapted  figure,  even  conviction  is  assisted,  and  a 
truth  is  impressed  upon  the  mind  with  additional  hve- 
liness  and  force.  Thus  in  the  following  passage  of 
Dr.  Young :  "  When  we  dip  too  deep  in  pleasure,  wo 
always  stir  a  sediment,  that  renders  it  impure  and 
noxious."  When  an  image  presents  such  a  resem- 
blance between  a  moral  and  a  sensible  idea,  it  serves, 
like  an  argument  fr'om  analogy,  to  enforce  what  the 
author  advances,  and  to  induce  belief. 

All  tropes  being  founded  on  the  relation  which  one 
object  bears  to  another,  the  name  of  the  one  may  be 
substituted  for  that  of  the  other ;  and  by  this  the  ^ 
vivacity  of  the  idea  is  generally  increased.  The  rela- 
tion between  a  cause  and  its  effect  is  one  of  the  first 
and  most  obvious.  Hence  the  cause  is  sometimes 
figuratively  put  for  the  effect.  Thus  Mr.  Addison, 
writing  of  Italy,  says, 

What  additional  advantages  are  figures  attended  with  ? — Example. 
— What  is  said  of  this  image  ? 

In  the  use  of  tropes,  when  may  the  vivacity  of  the  idea  he  in- 
creased ?— What  is  said  of  the  relation  between  a  cause  and  elfect  * 
— Example. — llemarks. 


riGURATIVE  LANGUAGE. 


89 


Blossoms,  and  fruits,  and  flowers  together  rise, 
And  the  whole  year  in  gay  confusion  lies. 

Here  tlie  "  Avliole  year"  is  plainly  meant'  to  signify 
tlie  productions  of  tlie  year.  The  effect  is  also  put 
for  the  cause  ;  as  "  gi^ay  hairs"  for  "  old  age,"  which 
produces  gray  hairs;  and  "shade"  for  the  "trees," 
which  cause  the  shade.  The  relation  between  the 
container  and  the  thing  contained  is  so  intimate  and 
apparent,  as  natm-ally  to  give  rise  to  tropes. 

 Ille  impiger  hausit 

Spumantem  pateram,  et  pleno  se  proluit  auro 

"Where  it  is  ob^-ious,  that  the  cup  and  gold  are  put 
for  the  hquor,  contained  in  the  golden  cup.  The 
name  of  the  country  is  often  used  to  signify  its  inha- 
bitants. To  pray  for  the  assistance  of  Heaven  is  the 
same  with  praying  for  the  assistance  of  God,  who  is 
in  heaven.  The  relation  between  a  sign  and  the  thing 
signified  is  another  som"ce  of  tropes.  Thus, 

Cedant  arma  togee  ;  concedat  laurea  linguEe. 

Here  the  "  toga,"  which  is  the  badge  of  the  civil 
professions,  and  the  "laurel,"  that  of  military  ho- 
nours, are  each  of  them  put  for  the  civil  and  military 
characters  themselves.  Tropes,  founded  on  these 
several  relations  of  cause  and  effect,  container  and 
contained,  sign  and  thing  signified,  are  caUed  by  the 
name  of  metonomy. 

When  a  trope  is  founded  on  the  relation  between 
an  antecedent  and  its  consequent,  it  is  caUed  a  met-  ' 
alepsis ;  as  in  the  Roman  phrase,  "  fuit,"  or  "  vkit," 
to  signify  that  one  was  deacl.  "  Fuit  Ihum  et  ingens 
gloria  Teucrum"  expresses  that  the  glory  of  Troy  is 
no  more. 


What  naturally  gives  rise  to  tropes  ? — Example. — Remarks, 
What  is  another  source  of  tropes  ?— Example.— Remark* 
What  tropes  are  called  by  the  name  of  metonomy  ? 
When  is  a  trope  caUed  a  metalepsis  1 — Example. 

8* 


90 


METAPHOR. 


When  tlie  wliole  is  put  for  a  part,  or  a  part  for  tlie 
wliole  ;  a  genus  for  a  species,  or  a  species  for  a  genus ; 
the  singular  number  for  the  plural,  or  the  plural  for 
the  singular ;  in  general,  when  any  thing  less,  or  any 
thing  more,  is  put  for  the  precise  object  meant ;  the 
figure  is  then  termed  a  synedoche.  We  say,  for  in 
stance,  "A  fleet  of  so  many  sail,"  instead  of  so  many 
"  ships ;"  we  frequently  use  the  "  head"  for  the  "  per 
son,"  the  "  pole"  for  the  "  earth,"  the  "  waves"  for  the 
' "  sea."  An  attribute  is  often  used  for  its  subjects , 
as,  "  youth  and  beauty,"  for  the  "  young  and  beauti- 
ful ;"  and  sometimes  a  subject  for  its  attribute.  But 
the  relation,  by  far  the  most  fruitful  of  tropes,  is  simil- 
itude, which  is  the  sole  foundation  of  metaphor. 


LECTURE  XV. 


METAPHOR. 

Metaphor  is  founded  entirely  on  the  resemblance 
which  one  object  bears  to  another.  It  is,  therefore, 
nearly  allied  to  simile  or  comparison  ;  and  is,  indeed, 
a  comparison  in  an  abridged  form.  When  we  say  of 
t  a  great  minister,  "  he  upholds  the  state,  like  a  pillar, 
which  supports  the  weight  of  an  edifice,"  we  evident- 
ly make  a  comparison  ;  but,  when  we  say  of  him,  he 
is  "  the  pillar  of  the  state,"  it  becomes  a  metaphor. 

Of  all  the  figures  of  speech,  none  approaches  so 


When  is  the  figure  termed  a  synedoche  ? — Examples. — What  is  far 
the  most  fruitful  of  tropes  ?— Of  what  is  it  the  sole  foundation  1 


What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

On  what  is  metaphor  founded  ? — To  what  is  it  nearly  allied  ? — Is 
Indeed  what? — Illustrate. 
What  is  said  of  metaphor  in  respect  to  painting  ?— What  is  ro- 


METAPHOR. 


91 


near  to  painting,  as  metaplior.  It  gives  light  and 
strength  to  description  ;  makes  intellectual  ideas  in 
some  degree  visible,  by  giving  them  colour,  substance, 
and  sensible  Cjualities.  To  produce  this  effect,  hovr- 
ever,  a  dehcate  hand  is  requisite  ;  for  by  a  little  in- 
accuracy vre  may  introduce  confusion  instead  of  pro- 
moting perspicuity.  Several  rules  therefore  must  be 
given  for  the  proper  management  of  metaphors. 

The  first  rule  respecting  metaphors  is,  they  must 
be  suited  to  the  nature  of  the  subject ;  neither  too 
numerous,  nor  too  gay,  nor  too  elevated  for  it ;  we 
must  neither  attempt  to  force  the  subject  by  the  use 
of  them  into  a  degi'ee  of  elevation,  not  congruous  to 
it ;  nor  on  the  contrary  suffer  it  to  fall  belovr  its  proper 
dignity.  Some  metaphors  are  beautiful  in  poetiy, 
which  would  be  unnatural  in  prose  ;  some  are  grace- 
ful in  orations,  which  would  be  highly  improper  in 
historical  or  philosophical  composition.  Figures  are 
the  dress  of  sentiment.  They  should  consequently 
be  adapted  to  the  ideas  which  they  are  intended  to 
adorn. 

The  second  rule  respects  the  choice  of  objects, 
whence  metaphoi-s  are  to  be  drawn.  The  field  for 
figurative  language  is  very  wide.  All  nature  opens 
her  stores  and  alloAvs  us  to  collect  them  without  re- 
straint. But  we  miLst  beware  of  using  stich  allusions 
as  raise  in  the  mind  disagTceable,  mean,  low,  or  dirty 
ideas.  To  render  a  metaphor  perfect,  it  must  not  only 
be  apt,  but  pleasing ;  it  must  entertain  as  well  as  en- 
lighten. Dryden,  therefore,  can  hardly  escape  the 
imputation  of  a  very  unpardonable  breach  of  delicacy, 
when  he  observes  to  the  Earl  of  Doreet,  that  "  some 
bad  poems  carry  their  owners'  marks  about  them ; 


qnisite  to  produce  this  effect  ?— Why  ? — Several  rules  must  therefore 
Le  given  for  what  ? 
What  is  the  first  ? 

What  is  the  second  ?— Of  what  must  we  beware  ? — To  render  a 
metaphor  perfectj  what  must  he  done  I— Wliat  is  said  of  Dryden  I 


92 


METAPHOR. 


some  brand  or  oilier  on  this  buttock,  or  that  ear  ;  that 
it  is  notorious,  who  are  the  owners  of  the  cattle." 
The  most  pleasing  metaphors  are  derived  from  the 
frequent ,  occurrences  of  art  and  nature,  or  from  the 
civil  transactions  and  customs  of  mankind.  Thus,  how 
expressive,-  yet  at  the  same  time  how  famihar,  is  the 
image,  which  Ottway  has  put  into  the  mouth  of  Me- 
tellus  in  his  play  of  Caius  Marius,  where  he  calls 
Sulpicius 

That  mad  wild  bull,  whom  Marms  lets  loose 

Oa  each  occasion,  when  he'd  make  Rome  feel  him, 

To  toss  our  laws  and  liberties  in  the  air. 

In  the  third  place,  a  metaphor  should  be  founded  on  • 
a  resemblance,  which  is  clear  and  striking,  not  far 
fetched,  nor  difficult  to  be  discovered.  Harsh  or 
forced  metaphors  are  always  displeasing,  because  they 
perplex  the  reader,  and  instead  of  illustrating  the 
thought,  render  it  intricate  and  confused.  Thus,  for 
instance,  Cowley,  speaking  of  his  mistress,  expres- 
ses himself  in  the  following  forced  and  obscure  ver- 
ses : 

Wo  to  her  stubborn  heart  ;  if  once  mine  come 

Into  the  self-same  room, 
'T  will  tear  and  blow  up  all  within, 
Like  a  grenada.  shot  into  a  magazine. 
Then  shall  love  keep  the  ashes  and  torn  parts 
Of  both  our  broken  hearts  ; 
Shall  out  of  both  one  new  one  make  ; 
From  hers  the  alloy,  from  mine  the  metal  take 
For  of  her  heart  he  from  the  flames  will  find 
But  little  left  behind  : 
Mine  only  will  remain  entire  ; 
.  No  dross  was  there  to  perish  in  the  fire 

Metaphors,  borrowed  from  any  of  the  sciences, 
especially  from  particular  professions,  are  almost  al- 
ways faulty  by  their  obscurity. 


—Whence  are  the  most  pleasing  metaphors  derived  ?— Example. 

What,  in  the  third  place,  should  a  metaphor  be  founded  on  ? — 
What  is  said  of  harsh  or  forced  metaphors  ?— Example. 

What  is  saia  of  metaphors  borrowed  from  any  of  the  scienceB  ? 


METAPHOR. 


93 


In  tlie  foTU'tli  place,  we  must  nerer  jiimble  meta- 
phorical and  plain  language  together  ;  never  construct 
a  perio'i  so,  that  part  of  it  must  be  understood  meta- 
phorically, part  hterallv :  which  always  produces  con- 
fusion. The  works  of  Ossian  afford  an  instance  of  the 
fault  we  are  now  censuring.  "  Trothall  went  forth 
with  the  stream  of  his  people,  but  they  met  a  rock; 
for  F:::g:;l  stood  unmii-vcd  ;  broken,  they  rohed  horn 
his  sMc.  Xor  did  they  roll  hi  safety;  the  sjjear  of 
the  king  pursued  their  flight."  The  metaphor  at  the 
beginning  is  beautiful ;  the  "  stream,"  the  "  unmoved 
rock,"  the  "  waves  roUing  back  broken,"  are  expres- 
sions in  the  proper  and  consistent  language  of  figiue  ; 
but  in  the  end,  when  w^  ^re  told,  "  they  did  not  roll 
in  safety,  because  the  spear  of  the  king  piu-sued 
theh  flight,"  the  hteral  meaning  is  hijuLliei^jusly 
mixed  -^ith  the  metaphor ;  they  are  at  the  same  mo- 
ment presented  to  us  as  waves  that  roll^  and  as  men 
that  may  ho^  pursued  and  wounded  hy  a  spear. 

In  the  fifth  place,  take  care  not  to  make  two  differ- 
ent metaphoi-s  meet  on  the  same  object.  This,  which 
is  called  mixed  metaphor,  is  one  of  the  gTossest  abuses 
of  this  figure.  Shak-pearc's  exy'rv^::-;!!,  f  r  example, 
to  take  arms  against  a  sea  ca'  trC'iiblcs."  makes  a 
most  unnatural  medley,  and  enthely  contbtmds  the 
imagination.  More  correct  writers  than  Shakspeare, 
are  somethnes  guilty  of  this  error.  Mr.  Addison  says, 
"there  is  not  a  single  '  '  'f  human  nature,  which 
is  not  sufficient  to  •  :i  the  seeds  of  pride.'* 

Here  a  vieic  is  made  lo  txtinguish  and  to  extinguish 
seeds. 

In  examining  the  pr':'priety  of  metaph  :!?,  ::  is  a 
good  rule  to  form  a  pictiu-e  'jf  them,  an^l  vj  L-  .i.-ider 


In  the  fourth  place,  vrhat  mtist  vtq  aroid  ? — Whose  vrcrks  afford 
an  instance  of  this  ? — Cite  the  example. — K.emark?  thereon. 

In  the  fifth  pilace.  of  what  must  we  take  care? — Example  froia 
Shaksp.-are. — Fr^m  Addison. — liemarks. 

What  is  a  good  rule  in  examining  the  propriety  of  metaphors  1 


94 


METAPHOR. 


how  tlie  parte  agi-ee,  and  what  kind  oi  figure  the 
whole  presents,  when  dehneated  with  a  pencil. 

Metaphors,  in  the  sixth  place,  should  not  be  crowd- 
ed together  on  the  same  object.    Though  each  of 
them  be  distinct,  yet,  if  they  be  heaped  on  one  ano- 
ther, they  produce  confusion.    The  fohowing  passag 
from  Horace  will  exemplify  this  observation  : 

Motum  ex  Metello  consule  civisum 
Bellique  causas,  et  vitia.  et  modos, 

Ludumque  fortnnae.  gravesque 

Principium  amicitias,  et  arma 
Nonduni  expiatis  uncta  cruoribus, 
Periculosse  plenum  opus  aleae, 

Traijtas.  et  incedis  per  ignes 

Suppositos  cineri  doloso. 

This  passage,  though  very  poetical,  is  rendered 
harsh  and  obscure  by  three  distinct  metaphors  crowd- 
ed together.  First,  "  arma  uncta  cruoribus  nondum 
expiatis  ;"  next,  "  opus  plenum  periculosce  alece  ;"  and 
then,  "  incedis  per  ignes  suppositos  cineri  duloso.^^ 

The  last  rule  concerning  metaphors  is,  they  should 
not  be  too  far  pursued.  For  when  the  resemblance, 
which  is  the  foundation  of  the  figure,  is  long  dwelt 
upon,  and  carried  into  all  its  minute  circumstances, 
an  allegor)^  is  produced  instead  of  a  metaphor ;  the 
reader  is  wearied,  and  the  discourse  becomes  obscure. 
This  is  termed  straining  a  metaphor.  Dr.  Young, 
whose  imaginatioa  was  more  distinguished  by 
strength,  than  delicacy,  is  often  guilty  of  running 
down  his  metaphors.  Speaking  of  old  age,  he  says, 
it  should 

Walk  thoughtful  on  the  silent,  solemn  shore 
Of  that  vast  ocean,  it  must  sail  so  soon  ; 
And  put  good  works  on  board  ;  and  wait  the  wind 
That  shortly  blows  us  into  worlds  unknown. 

The  first  two  lines  are  uncommonly  beautiful ; 
but  when  he  continues  the  metaphor  by  "  putting 

What  is  said-of  metaphors  in  the  sixth  place  ? — Example. 
How  is  this  passage  rendered  harsh  and  ob-cure  ? 
What  is  the  last  rule  concerning  metaphors  ? — Why  ? — What  is 
this  termed  ?— Said  of  Dr.  Young  .'—Example.— Remarks  thereon 


METAPHOR. 


95 


good  Tvorks  on  board,  and  waiting  tlie  wind,"  it  is 
strained,  and  sinks  in  dignity. 

Ha^-ing  treated  of  a  metaphor,  we  shall  conclude 
this  chapter  with  a  few  words  concerning  allegory. 

An  allegory  is  a  continued  metaphor ;  as  it  is  the 
representation  of  one  thing  by  another  that  resembles 
it.  Thus  Piior  mates  Emma  describe  her  constancy 
to  Henry  in  the  following  allegorical  manner. 

Did  I  but  purpose  to  embark  with  thee 
On  1  he  finooth  surface  of  a  summer's  sea. 
While  gentle  zephjTS  play  ■svith  prosperous  gales, 
And  fortune's  favour  fills  the  swelling  sails  ; 
But  would  forsake  the  ship,  and  make  the  shore. 
When  the  winds  whistle  and  the  tempests  roar  ? 

The  same  rules  that  were  given  for  metaphors, 
may  be  applied  to  allegories  on  account  of  the  affinity 
between  them.  The  only  material  difference  beside 
the  one  being  short  and  the  other  prolonged  is,  that 
a  metaphor  always  explains  itself  by  the  words  that 
are  connected  with  it  in  their  proper  and  literal 
meaning ;  as,  when  we  say,  "  Achilles  was  a  hon  ;" 
"  an  able  minister  is  the  pillar  of  the  state."  Lion 
and  pillar  are  here  sufficiently  interpreted  by  the 
mention  of  Achilles  and  the  minister,  Avhich  are  join- 
ed to  them  ;  but  an  ahegory  may  be  allowed  to  stand 
less  connected  with  the  hteral  meaning  ;  the  inter- 
pretation not  being  so  plainly  pointed  out,  but  left  to 
otu'  OYvTi  reflection. 


WhE\,f  is  an  allegory  Example. 

Why-fDHy  the  same  rules  that  were  given  for  metaphors  be  a|> 
lied  to allegories  ?— What  is  the  difference  ?T-Illustrate. 


[96] 

LECTURE  XYI. 

HYPERBOLE. 

Hyperbole  consists  in  magnifying  an  object  be- 
yond its  natural  bounds.  Tbis  figure  occurs  very 
frequently  in  all  languages,  even  in  common  conver- 
sation. As  swift  as  tbe  wind ;  as  wbite  as  snow ; 
and  our  usual  forms  of  compliment  are  in  general 
extravagant  byperboles.  From  babit,  bowever,  tbese 
exaggerated  expressions  are  seldom  considered  as  by- 
perbolical. 

Hyperboles  are  of  two  kinds  ;  sucb  as  are  employed 
in  description,  or  sucb  as  are  suggested  by  passion. 
Tbose  are  far  best  wbicb  are  tbe  effect  of  passion ; 
since  it  not  only  gives  rise  to  tbe  most  daring  figures, 
but  often  renders  tbem'  just  and  natural.  Hence,  tbe 
following  pa»sage  in  Milton,  tbougb  extremely  byper- 
bobcal,  contains  notbing  but  wbat  is  natural  and 
proper.  It  exbibits  tbe  mind  of  Satan  agitated  bv 
rage  and  despair. 

Me  miserable  !    Which  vray  shall  I  fly  ? 
Infinite  wrath,  and  infinite  despair  ? 
Which  way  I  fly  is  hell ;  myself  am  hell  ; 
And  in  the  lowest  depth,  a  lower  deep, 
Still  threat'ning  to  devour  me,  opens  wide, 
To  which  the  hell  I  suffer  seems  a  heayen. 

-  In  simple  description,  byperboles  must  be  employ- 
ed witb  more  caution.  Wben  an  eartbquake  or 
storm  is  described,  or  wben  our  imagination  is  car- 
ried into  tbe  midst  of  battle,  we  can  bear  strong  by 
perboles  witbout  displeasure.    But,  wben  only  a 

What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  is  hyperbole  ? — Where  does  this  figure  occur  ? — Examples. 
—What  is  said  of  these  exaggerated  expressions  ? 

How  many  kinds  of  hyperboles  are  there  ? — What  are  they  ? — 
Which  are  best  ?— Why  ?— Example. 

What  is  said  of  hyperboles  in  simple  description !— When  can 
they  be  borne  without  displeasure  ?— When  are  they  disgusting  ? — 
Example.— Remarks. 


PERSONIFICATION. 


97 


woman  in  grief  is  presented  to  our  \dew,  it  is  impossi- 
ble not  to  be  disgusted  with  such  exaggeration,  as 
the  following,  in  one  of  our  dramatic  poets  : 

 I  found  her  on  the  floor 

In  all  the  storm  of  grief,  yet  beautiful, 

Pouring  forth  tears  at  such  a  lavish  rate, 

That,  were  the  world  on  fire,  they  might  have  drown'd 

The  wrath  of  heaven,  and  quench'd  the  mighty  ruin. 

This  is  mere  bombast.  The  person  herself,  who 
laboured  under  the  distracting  agitations  of  grief 
might  be  permitted  to  express  herself  in  strong  hy- 
perbole ;  but  the  spectator  who  describes  her,  cannot 
be  allowed  equal  liberty.  The  just  boundary  of  this 
figau-e  cannot  be  ascertained  by  any  precise  rule. 
Good  sense  and  an  accurate  taste  must  ascertain 
the  hmit  beyond  which,  if  it  pass,  it  becomes  ex- 
travagant. 


PERSONIFICATION  AND  APOSTROPHE 

We  proceed  now  to  those  figures,  which  He  alto- 
gether in  the  thought,  the  words  being  taken  in  their 
common  and  literal  sense.  We  shall  begin  with 
personification,  by  which  life  and  action  are  attribut- 
ed to  inanimate  objects.  All  poetry,  even  in  its 
most  humble  form,  abounds  in  this  figure.  From 
prose  it  is  far  fi-om  being  excluded ;  nay,  even  in 
common  conversation,  frequent  approaches  are  made 
to  it.  When  we  say  the  earth  thirsts  for  rain,  or  the 
fields  smile  with  plenty ;  when  ambition  is  said  to  be 
restless^  or  a  disease  to  be  deceitful ;  such  expressions 
show  the  facility  with  which  the  mind  can  accommo- 
date the  properties  of  h\dng  creatures  to  things  inan- 
imate, or  abstract  conceptions. 


What  is  further  said  of  this  figure  ? 

To  what  do  we  now  proceed  ? — Beginning  with  what  ? — What 
abounds  in  this  figure  ?  —From  what  is  it  not  excluded  ?— Ezain« 
pies. — What  do  these  expressions  show  ? 

9 


98 


PERSONIFICATION. 


There  are  three  different  degi-ees  of  this  figure ; 
which  it  is  requisite  to  distinguish,  in  order  to  deter- 
mine the  propriety  of  its  use.  The  first  is,  when 
some  of  the  properties  of  hving  creatures  are  ascribed 
to  inanimate  objects ;  the  second  when  those  inani- 
mate objects  are  described  as  acting  hke  such  as  have 
life  ;  and  the  third,  when  they  are  exhibited  either  as 
speaking  to  us,  or  as  hstening  to  what  we  say  to  them. 

The  first  and  lowest  degree  of  this  figure,  which 
consists  in  ascribing  to  inanimate  objects  some  of  the 
quahties  of  hving  creatures,  raises  the  style  so  httle, 
that  the  humblest  discourse  admits  it  without  any 
force.  Thus  "  a  raging  storm,  a  deceitful  disease,  a 
cruel  disaster,"  are  familiar  expressions.  This  indeed 
is  so  obscure  a  degi-ee  of  personification,  that  it  ixught 
perhaps  be  properly  classed  with  simple  metaphors, 
which  almost  escape  our  observation. 

The  second  degree  of  this  figure  is,  when  we  re- 
present inanimate  objects  acting  like  those  that  have 
life.  Here  we  rise  a  step  higher,  and  the  personifi- 
cation becomes  sensible.  According  to  the  nature  of 
the  action  which  we  ascribe  to  those  inanimate  ob- 
jects, and  to  the  particularity,  with  which  we  describe 
it,  is  the  strength  of  the  figure.  When  pursued  to  a 
considerable  length,  it  belongs  only  to  studied  ha- 
rangues ;  when  slightly  touched,  it  may  be  admitted 
into  less  elevated  compositions.  Cicero,  for  example, 
speaking  of  the  cases,  where  kilhng  a  man  is  lawful 
in  self  defence,  uses  the  following  expressions :  "  AH- 
quando  nobis  gladius  ad  occidendum  hominem  ah  ip- 
sis  porrigitur  legibus^  Here  the  laws  are  beautiful- 
ly personified,  as  reaching  forth  their  hand,  to  give  us 
a  sword  for  putting  a  man  to  death. 


How  many  degrees  are  there  of  this  figure  I — What  is  the  first  ?— 
The  second? — The  third  ? 

What  is  said  af  the  first  and  lowest  degree  of  this  figure  ?— Exam- 
ples.— Remarks. 

What  is  the  second  degree  ?— Example.— What  is  said  of  it  ? 


PERSONIFICATION. 


99 


In  poetry,  personifioations  of  this  kind  are  ex- 
tremely fi-equent,  and  are  indeed  tlie  life  and  soul  of 
it.  In  the  descriptions  of  a  poet,  ^vho  has  a  Hvely 
fancv.  every  thino-  is  animated.  Homer,  the  father 
of  puctry,  is  ]'eniarkaljle  fur  the  use  of  this  figure. 
Wcir,  peace,  darts,  rivers,  every  thing  in  short,  is  alive 
in  his  writings.  The  same  is  true  of  Milt-jn  ■  and 
Slialvspeare.  Xo  personification  is  more  striking,  or 
introduced  on  a  more  proper  occasion,  than  the  fol- 
Ljwing  of  Milton  upon  Eve's  eating  the  forbidden 
fi'uit : 

So  saying,  her  rasli  hand  in  exil  hour 
Forth  reaching  to  the  fruit,  she  pluck'd.  she  ate  ; 
Earth  felt  the  wound,  and  nature  from  her  seat, 
Sighing  through  all  her  works,  gave  signs  of  wo. 
That  ail  was  lost. 

The  third  and  highest  degTee  of  this  figure  is  yet 
to  be  mentioned  ;  ^-heii  inanimate  objects  are  repre- 
sented, not  only  as  feeling  and  acting,  but  as  speaking 
to  us,  or  hstening,  while  we  address  them.  This  is 
the  boldest  of  all  rhetorical  figures  ;  it  is  the  style  of 
strong  passion  only  :  and  therefore  should  never  be 
attempteii,  except  when  the  mind  is  considerably 
heated  and  agitated.  Milton  afibrds  a  very  beautifiil 
example  of  this  figure  in  that  moving  and  tender  ad- 
dress which  Eve  makes  to  Paradise  immediately  be- 
fore she  is  compeUed  to  leave  it. 

0.  unexpected  stroke,  worse  than  of  death  .' 
31ust  I  thus  leave  thee.  Paradise  ?    Thus  leave 
Thee,  native  soil  :  these  happy  walks  and  shades, 
Fit  haunt  of  gods  :  where  I  had  hop'd  to  spend 
Quiet,  though  >aJ,  tht  respite  of  that  day. 
Which  must  be  mi.rtal  to  us  both?    0  flowers, 
That  never  will  iu  other  climate  grow, 
My  early  visitation,  aud  my  last 
At  even,  which  I  bred  up  with  tender  hand 
From  your  first  opening  buds,  and  gave  you  names, 
Who  now  shall  rear  you  to  the  sun,  or  rank 
Your  tribes,  and  vrater  from  the  ambrosial  fount  ? 


In  what  are  personific  itions  of  this  kind  frecjuent  ? — Who  was 
remarkable  for  this  ngure  .' — What  is  alive  in  his  writings? — The 
same  is  true  of  whom  .-—Example. 

What  is  said  of  the  third  and  highest  degree  of  this  figure  ? — In 
■what  does  Milton  afford  an  example  of  this  figure  1— Cite  the  ex- 
ample. 


100 


APOSTROPHE. 


This  is  the  real  language  of  nature  and  of  female 
passion. 

In  the  management  of  this  sort  of  personification 
two  rules  are  to  be  observed.  First,  never  attempt  it, 
unless  prompted  by  strong  passion,  and  never  con 
tinue  it  when  the  passion  begins  to  subside.  Tho 
second  rule  is,  never  personify  an  object  Avhich  has 
not  some  dignity  in  itself,  ancl  which  is  incapable  of 
making  a  proper  figure  in  the  elevation  to  which  we 
raise  it.  To  address  the  body  of  a  deceased  friend 
is  natural ;  but  to  address  the  clothes  which  he  wore, 
introduces  low  and  degrading  ideas.  So  likewise, 
addressing  the  several  parts  of  the  body,  as  if  they 
were  animated,  is  not  agreeable  to  the  dignity  of 
passion.  For  this  reason  the  following  passage  in 
Pope's.  Eloisa  to  Abelard  is  liable  to  censure  : 

Dear,  fatal  name,  rest  ever  unreveal'd, 
Nor  pass  these  lips,  in  holy  silence  seal'd. 
Hide  it,  my  heart,  within  that  close  disguise, 
Where,  mix'd  with  God's,  his  lov'd  idea  lies  ; 
0,  write  it  not,  my  hand  ; — his  name  appears 
Already  written — blot  it  out,  my  tears. 

Here  the  name  of  Abelard  is  first  personified ; 
which,  as  the  name  of  a  person  often  stands  for  the 
person  himself,  is  exposed  to  no  objection.  Next, 
Eloisa  personifies  her  own  heart ;  and,  as  the  heart  is 
a  dignified  part  of  the  human  frame,  and  is  often  put 
for  the  mind,  this  also  may  pass  without  censure. 
But,  when  she  addresses  her  hand,  and  tells  it  not  to 
write  his  name,  this  is  forced  and  unnatural.  Yet 
the  figure  becomes  still  worse,  when  she  exhorts  her 
tears  to  blot  out  what  her  hand  had  written.  The 
two  last  lines  are  indeed  altogether  unsuitable  to  the 
tenderness,  which  breathes  through  the  rest  of  that 
inimitable  poem. 


What  is  said  of  it  ? 

What  must  be  observed  in  the  management  of  this  sort  of  per 
bonification  ?— What  is  the  first  ? — The  second  ?— Example.— Re- 
marks thereon. 


COMPARISON. 


101 


Apostrophe  is  an  address  to  a  real  person  ;  but 
one  Tvlio  is  either  absent  or  dead,  as  if  be  were  pre-| 
sent,  and  bstening  to  us.  This  figure  is  in  boldness 
a  degree  lower  than  personification  ;  since  it  requires 
less  effoi-t  of  imagination  to  suppose  persons  present, 
who  are  dead  or  absent,  than  to  animate  insensible 
beings,  and  direct  our  discourse  to  them.  The  po- 
ems of  Ossian  abound  in  beautiful  instances  of  this 
figure.  "  Weep  on  the  rocks  of  roaring  winds,  O 
Maid  of  Inistore.  Bend  thy  fair  head  over  the  waves, 
thou  fairer  than  the  ghost  of  the  hills,  when  it  moves 
in  a  sun-beam  at  noon  over  the  silence  of  Morven. 
He  is  fallen.  Thy  youth  is  low ;  pale  beneath  the 
Bword  of  Cuchulhn." 


LECTURE  XYIL 


COMPAEISON,  ANTITHESIS,  INTERROGATION,  EX- 
CLAMATION, AND  OTHER  FIGURES 
OF  SPEECH. 

A  COMPARISON,  or  simile,  is,  when  the  resemblance 
between  two  objects  is  expressed  in  form,  and  usually 
pursued  more  fuUy  than  the  nature  of  a  metaphor  ad- 
mits. As  when  we  say,  "The  actions  of  princes  are 
hke  those  great  rivers,  the  course  of  which  every  one 
beholds,  but  their  springs  have  been  seen  by  few."| 
This  shoit  instance  ysill  show  that  a  happy  compar-. 
ison  is  a  sort  of  sparkling  ornament,  which  adds  lustre^' 
and  beauty  to  discourse.  ^ 


What  is  apostrophe  ? — How  is  this  figure  in  comparison  to  personi- 
fication ?— For -what  reason  ? — AVhose  poems  abound,  in  instances  of 
this  ligxxre  ] — Cite  the  example. 

"What  are  the  suhjects  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  is  a  comparison  1 — Example. — What  does  this  instanc* 
Bho-w  ] 

9* 


102 


COMPARISON. 


All  comparisons  maybe  reduced  imder  two  Iieads; 
explaining  and  embellishing  comparisons.  For,  when 
a  writer  compares  an  object  wdth  any  other  thing,  it 
always  is,  or  ought  to  be,  with  a  view  to  make  us  un- 
derstand that  object  more  clearl}^,  or  to  render  it  more 
pleasing.  Even  abstract  reasoning  admits  explaining 
comparisons.  For  instance,  the  distinction  between 
the  powers  of  sense  and  imagination  is  in  Mr.  Harris's 
Hermes  illustrated  by  a  simile ;  "  As  wax,"  says  he, 
"  would  not  be  adequate  to  the  purpose  of  signature, 
if  it  had  not  the  power  to  retain  as  w^ell  as  to  receive 
the  impression  ;  the  same  holds  of  the  soul  with  re- 
spect to  sense  and  imagination.  Sense  is  its  recep- 
tive power,  and  imagination  its  retentive.  Had  it 
sense  ^svithout  imagination,  it  would  not  be  as  wax, 
but  as  water;  wdiere,  though  all  impressions  be  in- 
stantly made,  yet  as  soon  as  they  are  made,  they  are 
lost."  In  comparisons  of  this  kind,  perspicuity  and 
usefulness  are  chiefly  to  be  studied. 

But  embelhshing  comparisons  are  those  w^hich  most 
frequently  occur.  Resemblance,  it  has  been  observed, 
is  the  foundation  of  this  figure.  Yet  resemblance 
must  not  be  taken  in  too  strict  a  sense  for  actual  si- 
militude. Two  objects  may  raise  a  train  of  concor- 
dant ideas  in  the  mind,  though  they  resemble  each 
other,  strictly  speaking,  in  nothing.  For  example,  to 
describe  the  nature  of  soft  and  melancholy  music, 
Ossian  says,  "  The  music  of  Carryl  was  like  the  mem- 
ory of  jo3^s  that  are  past,  pleasant  and  mournful  to  the 
soul."  This  is  happy  and  delicate ;  yet  no  kind  of 
music  bears  any  resemblance  to  the  memory  of  past 
joys. 

We  shall  now  consider,  when  comparisons  may  be 


Under  what  two  heads  may  comparisons  be  reduced  ?— What  is 
the  object  of  a  writer  in  the  use  of  comparison  ?— Illustrate  ? — What 
are  chiefly  to  be  studied  in  comparisons  of  this  kind  ? 

What  comparisons  most  frequently  occur  ? — What  is  said  of  re- 
aemblance  ?— Example. — Remarks. 

What  shall  we  now  consider  ?— Aa  author  can  hardly  comioit  a 


COMPARISON. 


103 


introduced  witli  propriety.  Since  they  are  the  lan- 
guage of  imagination,  rather  than  of  passion,  an  au- 
thor can  hardly  commit  a  greater  fault,  than  in  the 
midst  of  passion  to  introduce  a  shnile.  Our  miters 
of  tragedies  often  err  in  this  respect.  Thus  Addison 
in  his  Cato  makes  Fortius,  just  after  Lucia  had  bid 
him  farewell  for  ever,  express  himself  in  a  studied 
comparison. 

Thus  o'er  the  dying  lamp  the  -unsteady  flame 
Hangs  quivering  cn  a  point,  leaps  off  by  fits, 
And  falls  again,  as  loth  to  quit  his  hold. 
Thou  must  not  go  ;  my  soul  still  hovers  o'er  thee, 
And  can't  get  loose. 

As  comparison  is  not  the  style  of  strong  passion, 
so  when  designed  for  emheUishment,  it  is  not  the  lan- 
guage of  a  mind  totally  unmoved.  Being  a  figure  of 
dignity,  it  always  requhes  some  elevation  in  the  sub- 
ject, to  make  it  proper.  It  supposes  the  imagination 
to  be  enlivened,  though  the  heart  is  not  agitated  by 
passion.  The  language  of  simile  hes  in  the  middle 
region  between  the  highly  pathetic  and  the  very 
humble  style.  It  is,  hovrever,  a  sparkling  ornament ; 
and  must  consequently  dazzle  and  fatigue,  if  it  recur 
too  often.  Similes,  even  m  poetiy,  should  be  em- 
ployed with  moderation  ;  but  in  prose  much  more  so ; 
otherwise  the  style  will  become  disgustingly  luscious, 
and  the  ornament  lose  its  beauty  and  effect. 

We  shall  now  consider  the  nature  of  those  objects 
from  which  comparisons  should  be  drawn. 

In  the  first  place,  they  must  not  be  drawn  fi-om 
things,  which  have  too  near  and  ob\dous  a  resem- 
blance of  the  object,  with  which  they  are  compared. 


greater  fault  than  M-hat  ? — Who  often  err  in  this  respect  ?— Ex- 
ample. 

'\^'hat  is  further  said  of  comparison  ?— It  always  requires  what  ?- 
Supposes  what  ? — In  what  region  does  the  language  of  simile  lie  ? — 
What  will  he  its  effect  if  it  recur  too  often  ?— How  should  thej 
employed  in  poetry  ?— How  in  prose  ? — Why  ? 

What  shall  we  now  consider  ? 

What,  in  the  first  place  ?— For  what  reason  ? 


104 


ANTITHESIS. 


The  pleasure  we  receive  from  tlie  act  of  comparing, 
rises  from  the  discovery  of  likenesses  among  things 
of  different  species,  where  we  should  not,  at  fii'st 
sight,  expect  a  resemblance. 

But,  in  the  second  place,  as  comparisons  ought  not , 
to  be  founded  on  likenesses  too  obvious,  much  less^; 
ought  they  to  be  founded  on  those  which  are  too  faint' 
and  distant.  These,  instead  of  assisting,  strain  the 
fancy  to  comprehend  them,  and  throw  no  light  upon 
the  subject. 

In  the  third  place,  the  object,  from  which  a  com- 
parison is  drawn,  ought  never  to  be  an  unknown  ob- 
ject, nor  one  of  which  few  people  can  have  a  clear 
idea.  Therefore  similes,  founded  on  philosophical 
discoveries,  or  on  any  thing,  with  which  persons  of  a 
particular  trade  only,  or  a  particular  profession,  are 
acquainted,  produce  not  their  proper  effect.  They 
should  be  drawn  from  those  illustrious  and  noted 
objects,  which  most  readers  have  either  seen,  or  can 
strongly  conceive. 

In  the  fourth  place,  in  compositions  of  a  serious  or 
elevated  kind,  similes  should  never  be  drawn  from  low 
or  mean  objects.  These  degrade  and  vilify ;  whereas 
similes  are  generally  intended  to  embelKsh  and  dignify. 
Therefore,  except  in  burlesque  writings,  or  where  an 
object  is  meant  to  be  degraded,  mean  ideas  should 
never  be  presented. 

Antithesis  is  founded  on  the  contrast  or  opposition 
of  two  objects.    By  contrast,  objects,  opposed  to  each  . 
other,  appear  in  a  stronger  light.    Beauty,  for  instance,  * 
never  appears  so  charming  as  when  contrasted  with 
ugliness.    Antithesis  therefore  may,  on  many  occa- 


In  the  second      Why  ? 

In  the  third  ? — What  similes  therefore  produce  not  a  proper 
effect  ? — From  what  should  they  be  drawn  ? 
In  tne  fourth  place Why  ? 

On  what  is  antithesis  founded  ?— How  do  objects  contrasted  ap- 
pear ?— How  beauty,  as  an  instance  I— For  what  may  antithesia 


IXTERROGATIOXS. 


105 


Eions,  be  used  advantageously,  to  strengthen  tlie  im- 
pression wliich  we  propose  that  any  object  should 
make.  Thus  Cicero,  in  his  oration  for  Milo,  repre- 
senting the  improbabihty  of  Milo's  designing  to  take 
a\Yay  the  life  of  Clodius,  when  every  thing  was  un- 
favc  urable  to  such  design,  after  he  had  omit  to  1  j  \  i  .- 
opportunities  of  effecting  such  a  pm-pose,  hci^Lici-S 
our  condction  of  this  improbability  by  a  skilful  use  of 
this  figm'C. — ^''Quem  igitur  cum  omnium  gratia  inier- 
ficere  noluit ;  hunc  voluit  cum  aliquorum  querela? 
Quern  jure^  quern  loco,  quern  temjoore.  quern  impune, 
non  est  ausus;  hunc  injuria,  iniqiLo  loco,  alieno  tem- 
pore, periculo  capitis,  non  dubitavit  occidere  /"  Here 
the  antithesis  is  rendered  complete  by  the  words  and 
membei-s  of  the  sentence,  expressing  the  contrasted 
objects,  being  similarly  constructed,  and  made  to  cor- 
respond with  each  other. 

AYe  must  however  acknowledge  that  fi-equent  use 
of  antithesis,  especially  where  the  opposition  in  the 
words  is  nice  and  quaint,  is  apt  to  make  st}"le  im- 
pleasing.  A  maxim  or  moral  saying  very  properly 
receives  this  form ;  because  it  is  supposed  to  be  the 
effect  of  meditation,  and  is  desio-ned  to  be  enoa-ayen 
on  the  memory,  which  recalls  it  more  easily  by  the 
aid  of  contrasted  expressions.  But,  where  several 
such  sentences  succeed  each  other ;  where  this  is  an 
author's  favom-ite  and  prevailing  mode  of  expression ; 
his  style  is  exposed  to  censm-e. 

IxTERROGATiONS  and  exclamatious  are  passionat 
figures.     The  literal  use  of  inten'ogation  is  to  ask 
a  question  ;  but,  when  men  are  prompted  by  passion, 
whatever  they  would  affirm,  or  deny,  with  gTeat 
earnestness,  they  natm-ally  put  in  the  form  of  a  ques- 


V-e  used  therefore  ?— In  \rhat  has  Cicero  made  a  skilful  Tise  of  this 
figure  1 — Cite  the  example. — llomarks. 

What  is  said  of  the  frequent  use  of  antithesis  ? 

What  are  interrogations  and  exclamations  ? — What  is  the  literas 
use  of  interrogation  ? — How  is  it  used  by  men  vrhon  prompted  iy 
passion  ? — Example. 


106 


VISION-. 


tion ;  expressing  thereby  the  firmest  confidence  of  the 
truth  of  their  own  opinion  ;  and  appeahng  to  their 
hearers  for  the  impossibihty  of  the  contrary.  Thus  in 
scripture ;  "  God  is  not  a  man,  that  he  should  he ;  nor 
the  son  of  man,  that  he  should  repent.  Hath  ho 
said  it  ?  And  shall  he  not  do  it  ?  Hath  he  spoken 
Jt  ?    And  shall  he  not  make  it  good  ?" 

Interrogations  may  be  employed  in  the  prosecution 
of  close  and  earnest  reasonings;  but  exclamations 
belong  only  to  stronger  emotions  of  the  mind ;  to 
surprise,  anger,  joy,  grief,  and  the  like.  These,  being 
natural  signs  of  a  moved  and  agitated  mind,  always, 
when  properly  employed,  make  us  sympathise  with 
those  who  use  them,  and  enter  into  their  feelings. 
Nothing,  however,  has  a  worse  effect,  than  frequent 
and  unseasonable  use  of  exclamations.  Young,  inex- 
perienced writers  suppose,  that  by  pouring  them  forth 
plenteously  they  render  their  compositions  warm  and 
animated.  But  the  contrary  follows;  they  render 
them  frigid  to  excess.  When  an  author  is  always 
cahing  upon  us  to  enter  into  transports,  which  he  has 
said  nothing  to  inspire,  he  excites  our  disgust  and  in- 
dignation. 

Another  figure  of  speech,  fit  only  for  animated  com- 
position, is  called  Vision  ;  when,  instead  of  relating 
something  that  is  past,  we  use  the  present  tense,  and 
describe  it,  as  if  passing  before  our  eyes.  Thus 
Cicero,  in  his  fourth  oration  against  Cataline  :  "  Videor 
enim  mihi  hanc  urhem  videre,  lucem  orhis  terrarun  > 
atque  arccm  omnium  gentium,  suhito  uno  incendio  con-  ' 
cidentum;  cerno  animo  sepulta  in  patria  miseros  atque 
in  sepultos  acervos  civium;  versatur  mihi  ante  oculus 


Ho-w  may  interrogations  be  employed  ?— To  what  only  do  excla- 
mations belong? — What  is  their  effect  when  properly  employed? — 
When  have  they  a  bad  effect  ?— What  do  young  and  inexperienced 
writers  suppose  ! — But  what  'follows  ?— When  does  an  author  excite 
our  disgust  and  indignation  ? 

<^hat  other  figure  of  speech  is  named  ?— Describe  it.— Example. 


CLIMAX. 


107 


asjoectus  Cethegi,  et  furor,  in  vestra  cade  haccJiantisy 
This  fio;m'e  has  o-reat  force  when  it  is  well  executed, 
and  when  it  flows  from  genuine  enthusiasm.  Other- 
^vise,  it  shares  the  same  fate  with  all  feeble  attempts 
towards  passionate  figures ;  that  of  throwing  ridicule 
upon  the  author,  and  lea\ing  the  reader  more  cool 
and  uninterested  than  he  was  before. 

The  last  figure  which  we  shall  mention,  and  which 
is  of  frequent  use  among  all  public  speakers,  is  Climax. 
It  consists  in  an  artful  exaggeration  of  all  the  circum- 
stances of  some  object  or  action,  wliicli  we  wish  to 
place  in  a  strung  light.  It  operates  by  a  gradual  rise 
of  one  circiunstance  above  another,  till  our  idea  is 
raised  to  the  highest  pitch.  We  shaU  give  an  instance 
of  this  figure  from  a  printed  pleading  of  a  c«^lebrated 
lawyer,  in  a  charge  to  the  jury  in  the  case  of  a  woman, 
who  was  accused  of  murdering  her  own  child. 
"  Gentlemen,  if  one  man  had  any  how  slain  another ; 
if  an  adversary  had  killed  his  C'ppostrr ;  or  a  woman 
occasioned  the  death  of  her  eiirmy  :  c\"en  these  crimi- 
nals would  have  been  capitally  punislied  by  the  Cor- 
nehan  law.  But,  if  this  guiltless  infant,  who  could 
make  no  enemy,  had  been  murdered  by  its  own  nurse ; 
what  punishment  would  not  the  mother  have  demand- 
ed ?  Vritli  what  cries  and  exclamations  would  she 
have  stunned  your  ears  i  What  shall  we  say,  then, 
when  a  woman,  guilty  of  homicide;  a  mother,  of  the 
murder  of  her  innocent  child,  hath  comprised  all  those 
misdeeds  in  one  single  crime ;  a  crime,  in  its  own  na- 
ture detestable;  in  a  woman  prodigious  ;  in  a  mother 
incrediljle  ;  and  perpetrated  against  one,  whose  age 
caUed  for  compassion ;  whose  near  relation  claimed 
afi"ection ;  and  whose  innocence  deserved  the  highest 
favour        Such  regular  climaxes,  however,  though 


— \Mieii  has  this  figure  great  force  ? — Otherwise  what  fate  does  it 
share  ] 

What  is  the  last  fignre  mentioned  ^ — In  what  does  it  consist  ? — 
How  dots  it  operate] — Example. — What  is  said  of  such  climaxes? 


108  GENERAL  CHARACTERS  OF  STYLE. 

they  liave  great  beauty,  yet  at  tlie  same  time  have 
the  appearance  of  art  and  study  ;  and,  therefore, 
though  they  may  be  admitted  into  formal  harangues, 
yet  they  are  not  the  language  of  passion,  which  sel 
dom  proceeds  by  steps  so  regular. 


LECTURE  XVIII. 

GENERAL  CHARAOTERS  OF  STYLE  ;  DIFFUSE,  CON- 
CISE, FEEBLE,  NERVOUS,  DRY,  PLAIN,  NEAT, 
ELEGANT,  FLOWERY. 

That  different  subjects  ought  to  be  treated  in  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  style,  is  a  position  so  obvious,  that 
it  requires  no  illustration.  Every  one  knows,  that 
treatises  of  philosophy  should  not  be  composed  in  the 
same  style  with  orations.  It  is  equally  apparent,  that 
different  parts  of  the  same  composition  require  a  va- 
riation in  the  style.  Yet  amid  this  variety,  we  still 
expect  to  find  in  the  compositions  of  any  one  man, 
some  degTce  of  uniformity  in  manner ;  we  expect  to 
find  some  prevaihng  character  of  style  impressed  on 
all  his  writings,  which  will  mark  his  peculiar  genius 

-and  turn  of  mind.  The  orations  in  Livy  differ  con- 
siderably in  style,  as  they  ought  to  do,  fi'om  the  rest 

-  of  his  history.  The  same  may  be  observed  in  those 
of  Tacitus.  Yet,  in  the  orations  of  both  these  histo- 
rians, the  distinguishing  manner  of  each  may  be 
clearly  traced ;  the  splendid  fulness  of  the  one  and 


What  are  the  subjects  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  position  is  so  obyious  that  it  requires  no  illustratior  ? — 
What  does  every  one  know  1 — What  is  equally  apparent  ' — Yet 
amid  this  variety  what  do  we  expect  ? — What  is  said  of  the  orations 
of  Livy  ^ —Of  Tacitus] — What  is  further  said  of  the  orations  of 


DIFFUSE  ASB  CONCISE. 


109 


the  sententious  bre\aty  of  the  other.  Wherever  there 
is  real  genius,  it  prompts  to  one  kind  of  style,  rather 
than  to  another.  "Where  this  is  wanting  ;  where  there 
is  no  marked  nor  pecuHar  character  in  the  composi- 
tions of  an  author ;  we  are  apt  to  conclude,  and  not 
without  cause,  that  he  is  a  vulgar  and  trivial  author 
who  writes  from  imitation,  and  not  h'om  the  impulse 
of  genius. 

One  of  the  first  and  most  obdous  distinctions  in 
style,  arises  from  an  author's  expanding  his  thoughts 
more  or  less.  This  distinction  forms  what  are  termed 
tlie  diffuse  and  concise  styles.  A  concise  writer  com- 
presses his  ideas  into  the  fewest  words  ;  he  employs 
none  but  the  most  expressive  ;  he  lops  off  all  those 
which  are  not  a  material  addition  to  the  sense.  What- 
ever ornament  he  admits,  is  adopted  for  the  sake  of 
force,  rather  than  of  grace.  The  same  thought  is 
never  repeated.  The  utmost  precision  is  studied  in 
his  sentences ;  and  they  are  generally  designed  to 
suggest  more  to  the  reader's  imagination  than  they 
express. 

A  diffuse  v^Titer  unfolds  his  ideas  fully.  He  places 
it  in  a  variety  of  hghts,  and  gives  the  reader  every 
possible  assistance  for  understanding  it  completely. 
He  is  not  very  anxious  to  express  it  at  first  in  its  full 
strength,  because  he  intends  repeating  the  impression  ; 
and,  what  he  wants  in  strength,  he  endeavours  to  sup- 
ply by  copiousness.  His  periods  naturally  flow  into 
s  ~)me  length,  and  having  room  for  ornament  of  every 
i\nd,  he  gives  it  free  admittance. 

Each  of  these  styles  has  its  peculiar  advantages; 
and  each  becomes  faulty  when  carried  to  the  extreme. 


both  these  historiatis  ? — To  what  does  real  genius  prompt  ?-- What 
are  yre  apt  to  conclude  when  this  is  wanting  f 

Whence  arises  one  of  the  most  obvious  distinctions  in  style  ? — 
What  does  this  distinction  form  ?— Describe  the  manner  of  a  concise 
writer. 

Describe  the  manner  of  a  diffuse  writer. 

What  is  said  of  each  of  these  styles  ?— Who  are  examples  ?f  con- 
ciaeness  ?— Who  of  diffuseness  ? 

10 


110 


DIFFUSE  AND  CONCISE. 


il 


Of  conciseness,  carried  as  far  as  propriety  will  allow, 
perhaps  in  some  cases  farther,  Tacitus  the  historian, 
and  Montesquieu  in  "  I'Esprit  de  Loix"  are  remarka- 
ble examples.  Of  a  beautiful  and  magnificent  diifuse- 
ness,  Cicero  is  undoubtedly  the  noblest  instance  which 
can  be  given.  Addison  also  and  Sir  William  Tempi 
may  be  ranked  in  the  same  class. 

In  determining  when  to  adopt  the  concise,  and  when 
the  diffuse  manner,  we  must  be  guided  by  the  nature 
of  the  composition.  Discourses  that  are  to  be  spoken, 
require  a  more  diffuse  style  than  books,  which  are  to 
be  read.  In  written  compositions  a  proper  degree  of 
conciseness  has  great  advantages.  It  is  more  lively ; 
keeps  up  attention ;  makes  a  stronger  impression  on 
the  mind  ;  and  gratifies  the  reader  by  supplying  more 
exercise  to  his  thoughts.  Description,  when  we  wish 
to  have  it  vivid  and  animated,  should  be  concise. 
Any  redundant  words  or  circumstances  encumber  the 
ifancy,  and  render  the  object  we  present  to  it  confused 
and  indistinct.  The  strength  and  vivacity  of  descrip- 
tion, whether  in  prose  or  poetry,  depend  much  more 
upon  a  happy  choice  of  one  or  two  important  circum- 
stances, than  upon  the  multiplication  of  them.  When 
we  desire  to  strike  the  fancy,  or  to  move  the  heart, 
we  should  be  concise ;  when  to  inform  the  under- 
standing, which  is  more  deliberate  in  its  motions,  and 
wants  the  assistance  of  a  guide,  it  is  better  to  be  full 
Historical  narration  may  be  beautiful  either  in  a 
concise  or  diffuse  manner,  according  to  the  author'3 
genius.  Livy  and  Herodotus  are  diffuse ;  Thucy- 
dides  and  Sallust  are  concise;  yet  they  are  all  agree- 
able. 


How  are  we  to  be  guided  in  the  adoption  of  style  ?— What  is  said 
of  discourses,  that  are  to  be  spoken  ? — Of  written  compositions  ? — 
What  should  description  be  when  we  wish  to  hare  it  vivid  and  ani- 
mated ?— What  is  the  effect  of  redundant  words  or  circumstances? 
— Upon  what  do  strength  and  vivacity  of  description  depend  ? — 
When  should  we  bo  concise  ? — When  is  it  better  to  be  full  ? — What 
manner  is  suited  to  historical  narration  ? — What  authors  are  dif- 
fuse ? — What  concise  ? — Are  they  all  agreeable  ? 


KEKYOUS   AND  FEEBLE. 


Ill 


The  nervous  and  tlie  feeble  are  generally  considered 
as  characters  of  style  of  the  same  import  with  the 
concise  and  the  diffuse.  Indeed,  they  freriucntly  co- 
incide ;  yet  this  does  not  always  hold ;  since  there  are 
instances  of  writers,  who,  in  the  midst  of  a  full  and 
ample  style,  have  maintained  a  considerable  degTce 
cf  stFt-ngth.  Livy  is  an  instance  of  the  truth  of  this 
observation.  The  foundation  of  a  nervous  or  weak 
style  is  laid  in  an  author's  manner  of  thinking.  If  he 
conceive  an  object  strongly,  he  will  exprc>s  it  with 
energy ;  but,  if  he  have  an  indi-tinct  vievr  c.f  his  sub- 
ject, it  will  clearly  appear  in  his  style.  Unmeaning 
words  and  loose  epithets  will  escape  him ;  his  expres- 
sions wiU  hd  vague  and  general ;  his  arrangement 
indistinct ;  and  our  conception  of  his  moaning  vrill  be 
faint  and  confused.  But  a  nervous  writer,  l  e  hi-  style 
concise  or  extended,  gives  us  always  a  sti'L'n.g  idea  of 
his  meaning.  His  mind  being  full  of  his  subject,  his 
words  are  always  expressive  ;  every  phrase  and  every 
figure  renders  the  picture  wliich  he  would  set  before 
us,  more  striking  and  complete. 

It  must,  however,  be  observed,  that  too  gi'eat  study 
of  strength  is  apt  to  betray  vrriters  into  a  har.-h  man- 
ner.   Harshness  proceeds  tiv_ni  uncommon  words,  ti'oni 
forced  invertions  in  the  cui.struciion  of  a  sentence, 
and  h'om  neglect  of  smoothness  and  ease.    This  is 
eckoned  the  fault  of  some  of  our  earliest  classics ; 
uch  as  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,   Sir  Francis  Bacon, 
Hooker.  Harrington,  Cudworth,  and  other  writers  of 
c  jn-ide-i'able  reputation  in  the  days  of  Queen  Eliza- 
)etli.  Janies  I.  and  Charles  I.     These  writers  had 
eiTes  and  strength  in  a  high  degree  ;  and  are  to  this 


How  are  the  nerrous  and  feeble  generally  considered  ?— Who  is  an 
instance  of  this  ?— In  vrhat  is  the  foundation  of  a  nervons  and  weak 
Style  biid  '—When  will  an  author  express  his  object  with  energy  ?- 
What  is  th-i  effect  if  he  have  an  indistinct  view  of  his  subject?—- 
What  is  said  of  a  nervous  writer  I 

What  is  apt  to  betray  wiiters  into  a  harsh  mannpr  ? — Prom  what 
does  harshness  proceed  ? — This  is  reckoned  the  fatilt  of  -Hhom 


112 


DRY  AND  PLAIN. 


day  distinguislied  by  this  quality  in  style.  But  the 
language  in  their  hands  was  very  different  from  what 
it  is  now,  and  was  indeed  entirwy  formed  upon  the 
idiom  and  construction  of  the  Latin  in  the  arrangement 
of  sentences.  The  present  form  of  our  language  has 
in  some  degree  sacrificed  the  study  of  strength  to  that 
of  ease  and  perspicuity.  Our  arrangement  is  less  for- 
cible, but  more  plain  and  natural ;  and  this  is  now 
considered  as  the  genius  of  our  tongue. 

Hitherto  style  has  been  considered  under  those 
characters"  which  regard  its  expressiveness  of  an  au- 
thor's meaning.  We  shall  now  consider  it  wdth  re- 
spect to  the  degree  of  ornament  employed  to  embel- 
lish it.  Here  the  style  of  different  authors  seems  to 
rise  in  the  foUov/ing  gradation,  a  dry,  a  plain,  a  neat, 
an  elegant,  a  flowery  manner. 

A  dry  manner  excludes  every  kind  of  ornament. 
Content  with  being  understood,  it  aims  not  to  please 
either  the  fancy  or  the  ear.  This  is  tolerable  only  in 
pure  didactic  writing;  and  even  there,  to  make  us 
bear  it,  great  solidity  of  matter  and  entire  perspicuity 
of  language  are  required. 

A  plain  style  rises  one  degree  above  a  dry  one.  A 
writer  of  this  character  employs  very  little  ornam^^-it 
of  any  kind,  and  rests  almost  entirely  upon  his  senbe. 
But,  though  he  does  not  engage  us  by  the  arts  of  com- 
position, he  avoids  disgusting  us  like  a  dry  and  a  harsh 
writer.  Beside  perspicuity,  he  observes  propriety, 
purity,  and  precision  in  his  language ;  which  form  no 
inconsiderable  degree  of  beauty.  Liveliness  and 
force  are  also  compatible  with  a  plain  style;  and 


What  is  said  of  these  writers  ? — What  was  langviage  in  their  hands  ? 
'—What  has  the  present  form  of  our  language  done? — What  is  ova 
arrangement  ? 

How  have  we  hitherto  considered  style  ?  ITow  shall  we  no\f 
consider  it  1 — In  what  gradation  does  the  style  of  different  authors 
seem  to  rise  I 

What  is  sa-id  of  a  dry  manner  ? 

What  is  said  of  a  plain  style?— A  writer  of  this  character  does 


2s EAT   AXD  ZLEGA^^T. 


113 


therefore  siicli  an  ciu:'!  '"r.  Ir's  sentiments  be  good, 
may  be  sufficiently  Mgrccciijle.  Tlie  ditil-rence  be- 
tween a  diy  and  a  plain  writer  is  this  ;  tlie  t':  imer  is 
incapable  of  ornament :  the  latter  goes  iv'^z  in  }  iir-uit 
of  it.  Of  th-se  ^vh'.'  have  emplovtd  th'j  pluhi  ^lylo, 
Dean  Swift  is  an  eminent  example. 

A  ntat  style  i^  next  in  cader  ;  and  here  we  are  ad- 
vancc^l  into  the  regijn  of  ':r'nameiit ;  but  not  C'f  the 
most  sparkling  kind.  A  writ^^r  e-f  this  character  -liows 
bv  his  attention  to  the  choice  of  words,  and  to  their 
gi-acefid  collocation,  that  he  does  not  despise  the 
beautv  of  language.  His  sentences  are  alv,  ays  free 
from  the  incumbrance  ot  supe-rdu'jus  vrri'.is :  of  a 
moderate  length ;  inchning  rather  to  brcviiy,  than  a 
swehing  sti'ucture  ;  and  closing  with  pre  pricty.  There 
is  variety  in  his  cadence ;  but  no  a[ipear:ince  cf  stu- 
died harmony.  Hi-  figures,  if  he  u-e  any.  are  short 
and  accm-ate,  ratlier  tli:tn  b  iki  and  glo\Wng.  Such  a 
style  may  be  attaineii  by  a  writer,  whose  pC'W.:rs  of 
fancy  or  genius  are  not  great,  by  industry  and  attention. 
This  sort  of  style  is  nC't  unsuitable  te*  any  subject 
whatever.  A  familiar  ep:-tie.  or  a  law  pap-r  on  the 
diiest  subject,  may  be  wiitten  wiih  neatne-s ;  and  a 
sermon,  l  r  a  ]"'h:le5ophical  tieatise  in  a  neat  style,,  is 
read  w::!;  -  u-tl-Uviu. 

An  eb-gen:  -ybe  implies  a  higher  degree  of  orna- 
ment than  a  ne;u  ■  "  -  "-i^g  f^H  ^he  virtues  of 
ornament  withuut  eep  :  excesses  or  defects. 
Complete  elegance  imphc-  gr^i-at  perspicuity  and  pro- 
jmety:  purity  in  the  choiee  vt  words;  and  care  and 
skill  in  their  aiTangement.  It  implies  farther,  the 
beauties  of  imagination  spread  over  style  as  tar  as  the 


vrbat  • — What  i?  the  difference  between  a  dry  and  a  plain  writer? — 
Wb :      an  -minent  example  of  the  plain  style  ? 

W  hiit  i;  nc-st  in  crder  ?  —  Into  what  are  we  h.re  advanced? — 
What  dot-i  a  writer  of  thi?  character  jhow  ?— Said  cf  hi;  5enten- 
ces  ; — e>i  his  cadc-nce  ?— His  iigures  ] — How  may  such  a  style  be 
attained  1— To  what  is  it  suitable  ? 

What  does  an  e.tgam  style  imply? — Wlaat  is  an  elegant  writer? 

10^ 


114 


FLORID. 


subject  permits ;  and  all  tlie  illustration  wliicli  figTira- 
tive  language  adds,  when  properly  employed.  An 
elegant  writer,  in  short,  is  one  who  delights  the  fancy 
and  the  ear,  while  he  informs  the  understanding ;  who 
clothes  his  ideas  in  all  the  beauty  of  expression,  but 
does  not  overload  them  with  any  of  its  misplaced 
finery. 

A  florid  style  implies  excess  of  ornament.  In  a 
young  composer  it  is  not  qr\\y  pardonable,  but  often 
a  promising  symptom.  But  although  it  may  be 
allowed  to  youth  in  their  first  essays,  it  must  not 
receive  the  same  indulgence  from  writers  of  more 
experience.  In  them  judgment  should  chasten  im- 
agination, and  reject  every  ornament  which  is  unsuita- 
ble or  redundant.  That  tinsel  splendour  of  language, 
which  some  writers  perpetually  aftect,  is  truly  con- 
temptible. With  such  it  is  a  iuxuriancy  of  words,  not 
of  fancy.  They  forget  that,  unless  founded  on  good 
sense  and  solid  thought,  the  most  florid  style  is  but  a 
childish  imposition  on  the  pubHc. 


What  does  a  florid  style  imply  ? — In  whom  is  it  pardonable,  and 
a  pr.;ml*ing  symptom'— la  whom  is  it  not  allowable? — What  is 
expectt  (1  from  them  ?--What  is  contemptible  in  some  writers?— 
What  is  it  with  siuch  ?— What  do  they  forget  ? 


[115] 


LECTURE  XtX. 

STYLE.— SBIPLE,  AFFECTED,  VEHEMENT.— DIKEC 
TIOITS  FOR  FORMING  A  PROPER  STYLE. 

SiMrLiciTY,  applied  to  -^-riting,  is  a  term  very  com- 
monly used;  but,  like  many  other  critical  terms,  often 
used  \Yitliout  precision.  The  dift'erent  meanings  of 
the  word  simplicity  are  the  chief  cause  of  this  inac- 
curacy. It  is  therefore  necessary  to  show,  in  what 
sense  simplicity  is  a  proper  attribute  of  style.  There 
are  fom-  different  acceptations,  in  which  this  term  is 
taken. 

The  first  is  simplicity  of  composition,  as  opposed  to 
too  gTeat  a  variety  of  parts.  This  is  the  simphcity  of 
plan  in  tragedy,  as  distinguished  from  double  plots 
and  cro\Yded  incidents ;  the  simphcity  of  the  Iliad  in 
opposition  to  the  digressions  of  Lucan  ;  the  simphcity 
of  Grecian  architectm-e  in  opposition  to  the  irregular 
variety  of  the  Gothic.  Simphcity  in  this  sense  is  the 
same  with  unity. 

The  second  sense  is  simplicity  of  thought  in  oppo- 
sition to  refinement.  Simple  thoughts  are  those  which 
flow  naturally  ;  which  are  suggested  by  the  subject  or 
occasion  ;  and  which,  when  once  suggested,  are  easi- 
ly understood  by  all.  Refinement  in  writing  means  a 
less  obvious  and  natural  train  of  thought,  which,  when 
carried  too  far,  approaches  to  intricacy,  and  dis- 
pleases us  by  the  appearance  of  being  far  sought. 


Wliat  are  the  subjects  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  is  said  of  simplicity  when  applied  to  -writing? — What  is 
it  therefore  necessary  to  show  ? — How  many  different  acceptationa 
are  there,  in  which  this  term  is  taken  ? 

What  is  the  first? — Examples. — Simplicity  in  this  sense  is  the 
same  with  what  ? 

What  is  the  second  sense? — Said  of  simple  "-honghts  ? — WTiat 
docs  refinement  in  writing  mean? — What  is  its  effect  when  carried 
Too  far  ? — Example. 


116 


SIMPLICITY. 


Thus  Parnell  is  a  poet  of  much  gi-eater  simplicity  in 
his  turn  of  thought  than  Cowley.  In  these  two  senses 
simplicity  has  no  relation  to  style. 

The  third  sense  of  simphcity  regards  style,  and  is 
opposed  to  too  much  ornament,  or  pomp  of  language. 
Thus  we  say  Mr.  Locke  is  a  simple,  Mr.  Hervey  a 
florid  writer.  A  siro.ple  style,  in  this  sense,  coincides 
with  a  plain  or  neat  style. 

The  fourth  sense  of  simplicity  also  respects  style ; 
but  it  regards  not  so  much  the  degree  of  ornament 
employed,  as  the  easy  and  natural  manner,  in  which 
our  language  expresses  our  thoughts.  In  this  sense 
simplicity  is  compatible  with  the  highest  ornament 
Homer,  for  example,  possesses  this  simplicity  in  the 
greatest  perfection  ;  and  yet  no  writer  has  more  orna- 
ment and  beauty.  This  simplicity  is  opposed  not  to 
ornament,  but  to  affectation  of  ornament ;  and  is  a 
superior  excellence  in  composition. 

A  simple  writer  has  no  mark  of  art  in  his  expres- 
sion ;  it  appears  the  very  language  of  nature.  We 
see  not  the  writer  and  his  labour,  but  the  man  in  his 
own  natural  character.  He  may  be  rich  in  expression ; 
he  may  be  full  of  figures  and  of  fancy ;  but  these  flow 
from  him  without  effort ;  and  he  seems  to  write  in  this 
manner,  not  because  he  had  studied  it,  but  because  it 
is  the  mode  of  expression  most  natural  to  him.  With 
this  character  of  style,  a  certain  degree  of  negligence 
is  not  inconsistent ;  for  too  accurate  an  attention  to 
wwds  is  foreign  to  it.  Simplicity  of  style,  like  sim- 
plicity of  manners,  shows  a  man's  sentiments  and  turn 
of  mind  without  disguise.    A  more  studied  and  arti- 


What  is  the  third  sense  ?— Example. — What  does  a  simple  style 
in  this  sense  coincide  with  ? 

What  is  the  fourth  sense  ? — What  is  said  of  Homer  as  an  example  ? 
—This  simplicity  is  what  ? 

What  is  said  of  a  simple  writer? — What  is  not  inconsistent  with 
this  character  of  style  ?  — Why  ?— What  do^'s  simplicity  of  style 
ehow  ? — Said  of  a  more  studied  and  artificial  mode  of  writing  ?— 
Reading  an  author  of  simplicity  is  like  what  I 


AFFECTATION. 


117 


ficial  mode  of  ^yriting,  however  beautiful,  ha?  always 
this  disadvantage,  that  it  exhibits  an  author  in  form, 
like  a  man  at  court,  where  splendour  of  dress  and  the 
ceremonial  of  beha\'iour  conceal  those  peculiarities, 
which  distinguish  one  man  from  another.  But 
reading  an  author  of  simplicity  is  hke  conversing 
with  a  person  of  rank  at  home  and  with  ease, 
where  we  see  his  natural  manners  and  his  real  char- 
Jicter. 

With  regard  to  simplicity  in  general,  we  may  ob- 
serve, that  the  ancient  original  writers  are  always 
most  eminent  for  it.  This  proceeds  from  a  very  ob- 
vious cause  ;  they  wrote  from  the  dictates  of  genius, 
and  were  not  formed  upon  the  laboui-s  and  writings 
of  others.  . 

Of  affectation,  which  is  opposed  to  simplicity  of 
style,  we  have  a  remarkable  example  in  Lord  Shaftes- 
bury. Though  an  author  of  considerable  merit,  he 
expresses  nothing  wdth  simphcity.  He  seems  to  have 
tliought  it  vulgar  and  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  man  of 
quality  to  speak  like  other  men.  Hence  he  is  ever 
in  buskins  ;  full  of  circumlocutions  and  artificial  ele- 
gance. In  every  sentence  we  see  marks  of  labour  and 
art ;  nothiiig  of  that  ease  which  expresses  a  sentiment 
coming  natural  and  warm  from  the  heart.  He  abounds 
with  figures  and  ornament  of  every  kind ;  is  some- 
times happy  in  them  ;  but  his  fondness  for  them  is  too 
visible  ;  and,  having  once  seized  some  metaphor  or  al- 
lusion, that  pleased  him,  he  knows  not  how  to  pait 
with  it.  He  possessed  delicacy  and  refinement  of 
taste  in  a  degree  that  may  be  called  excessive  and 
sickly  ;  but  he  had  little  warmth  of  passion  ;  and  the 
coldness  of  his  character  suo-o-ested  that  artificial  and 
stately  manner,  which  appears  in  his  writings.  No 


Who  are  most  eminent  for  this  simplicity  in  writing  ? — What  does 
this  proceed  from  ' 

In  whom  have  we  a  remarkable  example  of  affectation  in  style 
What  is  said  of  him  ] 


118 


VEHEMENCE. 


ftatlior  is  more  dangerous  to  tlie  tribe  of  imitatoi'S. 
tlian  Shaftesbury ;  who  amid  several  very  considera- 
ble blemishes,  has  many  dazzling  and  imposing 
^^•eauties. 

It  is  very  possible,  however,  for  an  author  to  write 
with  simplicity,  and  yet  without  beauty.  He  may  be 
free  from  affectation,  and  not  have  merit.  Beautiful 
implicity  supposes  an  author  to  possess  real  genius ; 
and  to  write  with  sohdity,  purity,  and  brilliancy  of 
imagination.  In  this  case,  the  simplicity  of  his  man- 
ner is  the  crowning  ornament ;  it  heightens  every 
other  beauty  ;  it  is  the  dress  of  nature,  without  which 
all  beauties  are  imperfect.  But,  if  mere  absence  of 
affectation  were  sufficient  to  constitute  beauty  of  style, 
weak  and  dull  writers  might  often  lay  claim  to  it 
A  distinction  therefore  must  be  made  between  that 
simplicity  which  accompanies  true  genius  and  is  en- 
tirely compatible  with  every  proper  ornament  of  style ; 
and  that  which  is  the  effect  of  carelessness. 

Another  character  of  style,  different  from  those  al- 
ready mentioned,  is  vehemence.  This  always  implies 
strength  ;  and  is  not  in  any  respect  incompatible  with 
simplicity.  It  is  distinguished  by  a  peculiar  ardom- ; 
it  is  the  language  of  a  man,  whose  imagination  and 
passions  are  glowing  and  impetuous  ;  who,  neglecting 
inferior  graces,  pours  himself  forth  with  the  rapidity 
and  fulness  of  a  torrent.  This  belongs  to  the  higher 
kinds  of  oratory  ;  and  is  rather  expected  from  a  man 
who  is  speaking,  than  from  one  who  is  writing  in  his 
closet.  Demosthenes  is  the  most  full  and  perfect 
example  of  this  kind  of  style. 


What  is  very  possible  for  an  author  ? — What  does  beautiful  sini' 
plicity  suppose  ? — In  this  case  the  simplicity  of  his  manner  is  what? 
— Said  of  ttie  mere  absence  of  affectation  ? — What  distinction  must 
therefore  be  made  ? 

What  is  another  character  of  style  ?— What  does  it  imply  ? — 
How  is  it  distinguished  ?— Whose  language  is  it  ? — To  what  kind 
of  oratory  does  it  belong  T— Who  is  an  example  of  this  kind  of 
style  ? 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  FORMING  A  PROPER  STYLE.  119 


Having  explained  tlie  different  cliaracters  of  style. 
vre  shall  conclude  our  observations  Tvitli  a  few  direc- 
tions for  attaining  a  good  style  in  general. 

The  first  direction  is,  study  clear  ideas  of  the  sub- 
ject, on  which  you  are  to  write  or  speak.  AYhat  we 
conceive  clearly  and  feel  strongly,  we  naturally  ex 
press  with  clearness  and  strength.  We  should  there- 
fore think  closely  on  the  subject  till  we  have  attained 
a  full  and  distinct  %dew  of  the  matter  which  we  are  to 
clothe  in  words  ;  till  we  become  warm  and  interested 
in  it ;  then,  and  then  only  shall  we  find  expression 
begin  to  flow. 

Secondly,  to  the  acquisition  of  a  good  style,  fre- 
quency of  composing  is  indispensably  nece^^sary.  But 
it  is  not  every  kind  of  composing  that  will  improve 
style.  By  a  careless  and  hasty  habit  of  writing,  a 
bad  style  will  be  acquhed ;  more  trouble  will  after- 
wards be  necessary  to  unlearn  faults,  than  to  become 
acquainted  with  the  rudiments  of  composition.  In  the 
beginning  therefore  we  ought  to  -^^lite  slowly  and  with 
much  care.  Facility  and  speed  are  the  fruit  of  prac- 
tice. ^ye  must  be  cautious,  however,  not  to  retard 
the  coui'se  of  thought,  noi  cool  the  ardour  of  imagi- 
nation, by  pausing  too  long  on  every  word.  On  cer- 
tain occasions  a  glow  of  composition  must  be  kept  up,  ^ 
if  we  hope  to  express  ourselves  happily,  though  at 
the  expense  of  some  inaccuracies.  A  more  severe 
examination  must  be  the  work  of  con-ection.  "What 
we  have  written  should  be  laid  by  some  time,  till  the 
ardour  of  composition  be  past ;  tih  partiahty  for  our 
expressions  be  weakened,  and  the  expressions  them- 
selves be  forgotten  ;  and  then  reviewing  our  work 


What  is  the  first  direction  for  attaining  a  good  style  ? 

What  is  the  second  direction  ? — How  maj'  a  bad  style  be  a-c- 
qnired  ? — What  will  be  the  result  ? — How  ought  we  to  write  in  the 
beginning  ? — What  is  the  fruit  of  practice? — Of  what  must  we  be 
cautious  ?— ^^'hat  must  we  do  to  discoT«r  imperfections  in  what  we 
Lave  written  ? 


120 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  FORMING- 


with  a  cool  and  critical  eye  as  if  it  were  the  per- 
formance of  another,  we  shall  discover  many  imper- 
fections which  at  first  escaped  us. 

Thirdly,  acquaintance  with  the  style  of  the  best 
authors  is  peculiarly  requisite.  Hence  a  just  taste 
will  be  formed,  and  a  copious  fund  of  words  supplied 
on  every  subject.  No  exercise  perhaps  will  be  found 
more  useful  for  acquiring  a  proper  style,  than  trans 
lating  some  passage  from  an  eminent  author  into  our 
own  words.  Thus  to  take  for  instance,  a  page  of  one 
of  Addison's  Spectators,  and  read  it  attentively  two 
or  three  times  till  we  are  in  full  possession  of  the 
thoughts  it  contains ;  then  to  lay  aside  the  book ;  to 
endeavour  to  write  out  the  passage  from  memory  as 
well  as  we  can  ;  and  then  to  compare  what  we  have 
written  with  the  style  of  the  author.  Such  an  exer- 
cise will  show  us  our  defects ;  will  teach  us  to  cor- 
rect them  ;  and  from  the  variety  of  expression  which 
it  will  exhibit,  wiR  conduct  us  to  that  which  is  most 
beautiful. 

Fourthly,  caution  must  be  used  against  servile  imi- 
tation of  any  author  whatever.  Desire  of  imitating 
hampers  genius,  and  generally  produces  stifi'ness  of 
expression.  They,  who  follow  an  author  closely, 
commonly  copy  his  faults  as  well  as  his  beauties. 
No  one  will  ever  become  a  good  writer  or  speaker, 
who  has  not  some  confidence  in  his  own  genius.  We 
ought  carefully  to  avoid  using  any  author's  pecuhar 
phrases,  and  of  transcribing  passages  from  him.  Such 
a  habit  will  be  fatal  to  all  genuine  cc^mposition.  It  is 
much  better  to  have  something  of  our  own,  though  of 


What  is  the  third  direction? — Hence  what  will  follow? — What 
exercise  is  recommended  for  acquiring  a  proper  style? — What  will 
be  the  benefit  we  shall  derire  from  such  an  exercise  ?   

What  is  the  fourth  direction  ?— What  effect  does  desire  of  imi- 
tation have  ?— Said  of  those  who  follow  an  author  closely  ? — Who 
■will  not  become  a  good  writer  or  speaker  ?— What  ought  we  care- 
fully to  avoid  ?— What  will  be  the  result  of  such  a  habit  ?— What 
is  much  better? 


A  PROPER  STYLE. 


121 


moderate  beauty,  than  to  shine  in  borrowed  orna- 
ments, which  will  at  last  betray  the  poverty  of  our 
genius. 

Fifthly,  always  adapt  your  style  to  the  subject  and 
likewise  to  the  capacity  of  your  hearers,  if  you  are 
to  speak  in  pubhc.  To  attempt  a  poetical  style, 
when  it  should  be  our  business  only  to  reason,  is  in 
the  highest  degree  awkward  and  absurd.  To  speak 
vnth.  elaborate  pomp  of  words  before  those  who  can- 
not comprehend  them,  is  equally  ridiculous.  When 
we  are  to  write  or  speak,  we  should  prenously  fix  in 
om'  minds  a  clear  idea  of  the  end  aimed  at ;  keep 
this  steadily  in  \aew,  and  adapt  our  style  to  it. 

Lastly,  let  not  attention  to  style  engross  us  so  much, 
as  to  prevent  a  higher  degre~e  of  attention  to  the 
thoughts.  This  rule  is  more  necessary,  since  the 
preseTTT  taste  of  the  age  is  directed  more  to  style  than 
thought.  It  is  much  more  easy  to  dress  up  trifling 
and  common  thoughts  with  some  beauty  of  expression, 
than  to  afford  a  fund  of  vigorous,  ingenious,  and  use- 
ful sentiments.  The  latter  requires  genius ;  the  for- 
mer may  be  attained  by  industry.  Hence  the  crowd 
of  ^Titers  who  are  rich  in  style,  but  poor  in  sentiment. 
Custom  obliges  us  to  be  attentive  to  the  ornaments  of 
style,  if  Ave  wish  our  labours  to  be  read  and  admired. 
But  he  is  a  contemptible  writer,  who  looks  not  be- 
yond the  di-ess  of  language  ;  who  lays  not  the  chief 
stress  upon  his  matter,  and  employs  not  such  orna- 
ments of  style  to  recommend  it,  as  are  manly,  not 
foppish. 


What  is  the  fifth  direction  ? — What  is  in  the  highest  degree  awk- 
ward and  ab>urd  ? — What  is  equally  ridiculous  1 — When  we  are  to 
write  or  speak,  what  ^hould  we  do  ? 

What  is  th»*  last  direction? — Why  ig  this  rule  necessarv  ? — It  is 
much  easier  to  do  what  ? — Than  what  ?— What  does  the  latter 
require  ? — How  may  the  former  be  attained  ?  —Hence  what  ? — What 
dots  custom  oblige  us  to  be ?— Who  is  a  contemptible  writer? 


11 


[122] 


LECTURE  XX. 

CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF  MR.  ADDISON'S  STYLE 
IN  No.  411  OF  THE  SPECTATOR. 

Having  fully  insisted  on  the  subject  of  language, 
we  shall  now  commence  a  critical  analysis  of  the 
style  of  some  good  author.  This  will  suggest  obser- 
vations, which  we  have  not  hitherto  had  occasion  to 
make,  and  will  show  in  a  practical  light  the  use  of 
those  which  have  been  made. 

Mr.  Addison,  though  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
writers  in  our  language,  is  not  the  most  correct ;  a  ch- 
cumstance  which  makes  his  composition  a  proper 
subject  of  criticism.  We  proceed  therefore  to  examine 
No.  411,  the  first  of  his  celebrated  essays  on  the 
pleasures  of  the  imagination,  in  the  sixth  volume  of 
the  Spectator.    It  begins  thus  : 

Our  sight  is  tlie  most  perfect,  and  most  delightful  of  all  our  senses. 

This  sentence  is  clear,  precise,  and  simple.  The 
author  in  a  few  plain  words  lays  down  the  proposi- 
tion which  he  is  going  to  illustrate.  A  first  sentence 
should  seldom  be  long,  and  never  intricate. 

He  might  have  said,  our  sight  is  the  most  perfect 
and  the  most  delightful.  But  in  omitting  to  repeat 
the  article  the,  he  has  been  more  judicious ;  for,  as 
between  perfect  and  delightful  there  is  no  contrast, 
such  a  repetition  is  unnecessary.    He  proceeds : 

It  fills  the  mind  mth  the  largest  variety  of  ideas,  converses  with  its 


What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  shall  we  now  commence  ?— What  will  this  suggest  ? 
What  is  said  of  Mr.  Addison  as  a  writer  ? — We  proceed  there- 
fore to  what  ? — Cite  the  sentence  ? 
What  is  said  of  this  sentence  ? 

TIow  might  he  have  said  ?— Said  of  the  omission  of  the  article 
thel—Uovi  does  he  proceed? 


CRITICAL  EXAMIXATIO^',  ETC. 


123 


objects  at  the  greatest  distance,  and  continues  the  longest  in  action, 
without  biiug  tired  or  satiated  with  its  proper  enjoyments  ? 

This  sentence  is  remarkably  harmonious,  and  well 
constructed.  It  is  entirely  perspicuous.  It  is  loaded 
with  no  unnecessary  words.  That  quality  of  a  good 
sentence,  which  we  termed  its  unity,  is  here  perfectly 
preserved.  The  members  of  it  also  grow,  and  rise 
above  each  other  in  sound,  till  it  is  conducted  to 
one  of  the  most  harmonious  closes  which  our  lan- 
guage admits.  It  is  moreover  tigm-ative  without  be- 
mg  too  much  so  for  the  subject.  There  is  no  fault 
in  it  whatever,  except  this,  the  epithet  large^  which 
he  applies  to  variety,  is  more  commonly  applied  to 
extent  than  to  number.  It  is  plain,  however,  that  he 
employed  it  to  avoid  the  repetition  of  the  word  great^ 
which  occurs  immediately  afterward. 

The  sense  of  feeling  can,  indeed,  give  us  a  notion  of  extension, 
shape,  and  all  other  ideas  that  enter  at  the  eve.  except  colours  :  but 
at  the  same  time,  it  is  very  much  straiteaed  and  confined  in  its 
operations,  to  the  number,  bulk,  and  distance  of  its  particular  objects. 

But  is  not  every  sense  confined  as  much  as  the 
sense  of  feeling,  to  the  number,  bulk,  and  distance 
of  its  own  objects  ?  The  turn  of  expression  is  also 
very  inaccurate,  requiring  the  two  words  with  re- 
gard,  to  be  inserted  after  the  word  operations,  in  or- 
der to  make  the  sense  clear  and  intelligible.  The 
epithet  particular  seems  to  be  used  instead  of  pecu- 
liar ;  but  these  words,  though  often  confounded,  are 
of  very  different  import.  Particular  is  opposed  to 
general ;  peculiar  stands  opposed  to  what  is  possessed 
in  common  with  others. 

Our  sight  seems  designed  to  supply  all  these  defects,  and  may  be 
considered  as  a  most  delicate  and  diffusive  kind  of  t  uch.  that 
spreads  itself  over  an  infinite  multitud-^  of  bodies,  comprehends  the 
largest  fiiures.  and  brings  into  our  reach  some  of  the  most  remote 
pares  of  the  universe 


"What  is  said  of  this  sentence  ? 
Cite  the  next  sentence. — >aid  of  it? 
Oite  the  next. — Said  of  it  ? 


124 


CRITICAL  EXAMINATION 


This  sentence  is  perspicuous,  graceful,  well  arranged, 
and  highly  musical.  Its  construction  is  so  similar  to 
that  of  the  second  sentence,  that,  had  it  immediately 
succeeded  it,  the  ear  would  have  been  sensible  of  a 
faulty  monotony.  But  the  interposition  of  a  peria:^ 
prevents  this  eftect. 

It  is  tliif5  sense  which  furnishes  the  imagination  with  its  ideas  ;  so 
that,  by  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination  or  fancy  (which  I  shall  use 
promiscuously)  I  here  mean  such  as  arise  from  visible  objects,  either 
when  we  have  them  actually  in  our  view,  or  when  we  call  up  their 
ideas  into  our  minds  by  paintings,  statues,  descriptions,  or  any  the 
like  occasion. 

The  parenthesis  in  the  middle  of  this  sentence  is 
not  clear.  It  should  have  been,  terms  ivhich  I  shall 
use  promiscuously  ;  since  the  verb  use  does  not  relate 
to  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  but  to  the  terms 
fancy  and  imagination^  which  were  meant  to  be  sy- 
nonymous. To  call  a  painting  or  a  statue  an  occa- 
sion is  not  accurate  ;  nor  is  it  very  proper  to  speak  of 
calling  up  ideas  by  occasions.  The  common  phrase, 
any  such  means,  would  have  been  more  natural. 

We  cannot  indeed  have  a  single  image  in  the  fancy,  that  did  not 
malie  its  first  entrance  through  the  sight  ;  but  we  have  the  power  of 
retaining  altering,  and  compounding  those  images  which  we  have 
once  received,  into  all  the  varieties  of  picture  and  vision,  that  are  most 
agreeable  to  the  imagination  ;  for,  by  this  faculty,  a  man  in  a  dun- 
geon is  capable  of  entertaining  himself  with  scenes  and  landscapes 
more  beautiful  than  any  that  can  be  found  in  the  whole  compass  of 
nature. 

In  one  member  of  this  sentence  there  is  an  inac- 
curacy in  syntax.  It  is  proper  to  say,  altering  and  ^ 
compounding  those  linages  which  we  have  once  receiv-' 
edj  into  all  the  varieties  of  picture  and  vision.  But 
we  cannot  with  propriety  say,  retaining  them  into  all 
the  varieties  ;  yet  the  arrangement  requires  this  con- 


Cite  the  next.— What  in  this  sentence  is  not  clear  I— How  should 
it  have  been  ? 

Cite  the  next  sentence.— What  inaccuracy  is  there  in  this  sen- 
tence .'— ilow  might  it  have  been  avoided  2 


OF  ui\.  Addison's  style. 


125 


structlon.  This  error  might  have  been  avoided  by- 
arranging  the  passage  in  the  following  manner :  "  We 
have  the  power  of  retaining  those  images  which  we 
have  once  received ;  and  of  altering  and  compound- 
hig  them  into  all  the  varieties  of  picture  and  vision." 
The  latter  part  of  the  sentence  is  clear  and  elegant. 

There  are  few  words  in  the  Englisli  language,  which  are  employed 
in  a  more  loose  and  uncircumscribed  sense  than  those  of  the  fancy 
and  the  imagination. 

Except  when  some  assertion  of  consequence  is  ad- 
vanced, these  little  words  it  is  and  there  are,  ought  to 
be  avoided,  as  redundant  and  enfeebling.  The  two 
fii'st  words  of  this  sentence  therefore  should  have  been 
omitted.  The  article  prefixed  to  fancy  and  the  im- 
agination ought  also  to  have  been  omitted,  since  he 
does  not  mean  the  powers  of  the  fancy  and  imagina- 
tio7i,  but  the  words  only.  The  sentence  should  have 
run  thus  :  "  Few  words  in  the  English  language  are 
employed  in  a  more  loose  and  uncircumscribed  sense 
than  fancy  and  imagination." 

I  therefore  thought  it  necessary  to  fix  and  determine  the  notion 
of  these  two  words,  as  I  intend  to  make  use  of  them  in  the  thread  of 
my  following  speculations,  that  the  reader  may  conceive  rightly 
what  is  the  subject  which  I  proceed  upon. 

The  words  fx  and  determine,  though  they  may  ap- 
pear so,  are  not  synonymous.  We  fx  what  is  loose ; 
we  determine  what  is  uncircumscribed.  They  may 
be  viewed,  therefore,  as  applied  here  with  peculiar 
dehcacy. 

The  notion  of  these  words  is  rather  harsh,  and  is 
not  so  commonly  used,  as  the  meaning  of  these  words. 
As  I  intend  to  maTce  use  of  them  in  the  thread  of  my 
speculations  is  evidently  faulty.  A  sort  of  metaphor 
is  improperly  mixed  with  words  in  their  literal  sense. 


Cite  the  next. — Said  of  those  little  words  it  is  and  there  are  1 — 
What  should  have  been  omitted  ? — Ho\7  should  the  sentence  have 
run  ? 

Cite  the  next. — Said  of  the  words  fix  and  determine  ?—ln  what 
respects  is  this  sentence  faulty  1 

11* 


126  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION' 

The  subject  which  I  proceed  upon,  is  an  ungraceful 
close  of  a  sentence ;  it  should  have  been,  the  subject 
tipon  which  I  proceed. 

I  must  therefore  desire  bim  to  remember,  that  by  the  pleasure  of 
imagination,  I  mean  only  such  pleasures  as  arise  originally  froia 
Bight,  and  that  I  divide  these  pleasures  into  two  kinds. 

This  sentence  begins  in  a  manner  too  similar  to 
the  preceding.  /  mean  only  such  pleasures — the  ad- 
verb only  is  not  in  its  proper  place.  It  is  not  intend- 
ed here  to  quahfy  the  verb  mean^  but  such  pleasures  ; 
and  ought  therefore  to  be  placed  immediately  after 
the  latter. 

My  design  being,  first  of  all,  to  discourse  of  those  primary  pleasures 
of  thu  imagination,  which  entirely  proceed  from  such  objects  as  are 
before  our  eyes  ;  and  in  the  next  place,  to  speak  of  those  secondary 
pleasures  of  the  imagination,  which  flow  from  the  ideas  of  visible  ob- 
jects, when  the  objects  are  not  actually  before  the  eye,  but  are  called 
up  into  our  memories,  or  formed  into  agreeable  visions  of  things  that 
are  either  absent  or  fictitious. 

Neatness  and  brevity  are  peculiarly  requisite  in  the 
division  of  a  subject.  This  sentence  is  somewhat 
clogged  by  a  tedious  phraseology.  My  design  being^ 
first  of  all,  to  discourse — in  the  next  place  to  speak 
of — such  subjects  as  are  before  our  eyes — things  that 
are  either  absent  or  fictitious.  Several  words  might 
have  been  omitted,  and  the  style  made  more  neat  and 
compact. 

The  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  taken  in  their  full  extent,  are  not 
io  gross  as  those  of  sense,  nor  so  refined  as  those  of  the  understand- 
*mg. 

This  sentence  is  clear  and  elegant. 

The  last  are  indeed  more  preferable,  because  they  are  founded  on 


Cite  the  next.— How  is  it  faulty  ? 
Cite  the  next.— Said  of  neatness 
tence  faulty  ? 
Cite  the  next  —Said  of  it  ? 
Cite  the  next.— How  is  it  faulty  ? 


and  brevity  !— How  is  this  sen- 


OF  MR.  Addison's  style. 


121 


some  new  knowledge  or  improvement  in  the  mind  of  man  ;  yet  it 
must  be  confessed,  that  tho^e  of  the  imagination  are  as  great  and  as 
transporting  as  the  other. 

The  plirase,  more  preferable,  is  so  palpable  an  in- 
accuracy, that  we  wonder  how  it  could  escape  the 
observation  of  Mr.  Addison.  The  proposition,  con- 
tained in  the  last  member  of  this  sentence,  is  neither 
clearly  nor  elegantly  expressed.  It  must  be  confessed 
that  those  of  the  imagination  are  as  great  and  as 
transporting  as  the  other.  In  the  beginning  of  this 
sentence  he  had  called  the  pleasures  of  the  under- 
standing the  last ;  and  he  concludes  with  observing, 
that  those  of  the  imagination  are  as  great  and  trans- 
porting as  the  other.  Besides  that  tJie  other  makes 
not  a  proper  contrast  vriih.  the  last,  it  is  left  doubtful 
whether  by  the  other  are  meant  the  pleasures  of  the 
understanding,  or  the  pleasures  of  sense ;  though 
without  doubt  it  was  intended  to  refer  to  the  pleasures 
of  the  imderstandino;  only. 

A  beautiful  prospect  delights  the  soul  as  much  as  a  demonstration  ; 
and  a  description  in  Homer  has  charmed  more  readers  than  a  chap- 
ter in  Aristotle. 

This  is  a  good  illustration  of  what  he  had  been  as- 
serting, and  is  expressed  with  that  elegance  by  which 
Mr.  Adchson  is  distinguished. 

Besides,  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination  have  this  advantage 
above  those  of  the  understanding;  that  they  are  more  obvious,  and 
more  easy  to  be  acquired. 

This  sentence  is  unexceptionable. 

It  is  but  opening  the  eye,  and  the  scene  enters 

Though  this  is  hvely  and  picturesque,  yet  we  must 
remark  a  small  inaccuracy.  A  scene  cannot  be  said 
to  enter  ;  an  actor  enters  ;  but  a  scene  appears  or 
presents  itself. 


Cite  this  sentence.— Said  of  it  1 
Cite  the  next.— Said  of  it? 

Cite  the  next.- -What  is  the  small  inaccuracy  in  it  T 


128 


CRITICAL  EXAMINATION 


_  The  colours  paint  themselves  on  the  fancy,  -with  vei'y  little  atten- 
tion of  thought  or  application  of  mind  in  tlid  beholder. 

This  is  beautiful  and  elegant,  and  well  suited  to 
those  pleasures  of  the  imagination  of  which  the  au- 
thor is  treating:. 

We  are  struck,  we  know  not  how.  with  the  symmetry  of  any  thing 

we  see  ;  and  immediately  assent  to  the  beauty  of  an  object,  without 
inquiring  into  the  particular  causes  and  occasions  of  it. 

We  assent  to  the  truth  of  a  proposition ;  but  can- 
not with  propriety  be  said  to  assent  to  the  hsaaty  of 
an  object.  In  the  conclusion,  particular  and  occa- 
sions are  superfluous  words ;  and  the  pronoun  it  is 
in  some  measure  ambiguous. 

A  man  nf  polite  imagination  is  let  into  a  great  many  pleasures  that 
the  vulgar  are  not  capable  of  receiving. 

The  term  polite  is  oftener  applied  to  manners, 
than  to  the  imagination.  The  use  of  that  instead  of 
which  is  too  common  with  Mr.  Addison.  Except  in 
cases  where  it  is  necessary  to  avoid  repetition,  which 
is  preferable  to  that^  and  is  undoubtedly  so  in  the 
present  instance. 

He  can  converse  Avith  a  picture,  and  find  an  agreeable  companion 
In  a  statue.  He  meets  with  a  secret  refreshment  iu  a  description  ; 
and  ofceu  feels  a  greater  satisfaction  in  the  prospect  nf  fields  and 
meadows,  than  another  d  )es  in  the  possession.  It  gives  him.  indeed, 
a  kind  of  property  in  every  thing  he  sees  ;  and  makes  the  most  rude, 
unculiivated  parts  of  nature  administer  to  his  pleasures  ;  so  that 
he  looks  upon  the  world,  as  it  were,  in  another  light,  and  discovers 
in  it  a  multitude  of  charms  that  conceal  them.selves  from  the  gene- 
rality of  mankind. 

This  sentence  is  easy,  flowing,  and  harmonious. 
We  must,  however,  observe  a  slight  inaccuracy.  It 
gives  him  a  kind  of  property — to  this  it  there  is  no 


Cite  this  sentence  ?— Said  of  it  ? 
Cite  th'}  next.— How  is  it  faulty  ? 

Cite  the  next  sentence.— Said  of  the  word  polite?— Oi  the  use  of 
that  instead  of  which  ? 
Cite  the  next.— Said  of  it  ?— What  is  the  slight  inaccuracy  in  it  ? 


OF  MR.  Addison's  style. 


129 


antecedent  in  tlie  ^vhole  paragrapli.  To  discover 
connexion,  we  must  look  back  to  the  third  sentence 
preceding,  which  begins  with  man  of  polite  imagina- 
tion. This  phrase,  polite  imagination^  is  the  only- 
antecedent  to  which  it  can  refer ;  and  even  this  is 
not  a  proper  antecedent,  since  it  stands  in  the  gen'- 
tive  case  as  the  qualification  only  of  a  man. 

There  are.  indeed,  but  very  few  who  know  how  to  be  idle  and 
innocent,  or  have  a  relish  of  any  pleasures  that  are  not  criuiiral  ; 
every  diversion  they  take  is  at  the  expense  of  some  one  virtue  or 
another,  and  their  very  first  step  out  of  business  is  into  vice  or 
foUy. 

This  sentence  is  truly  elegant,  musical,  and  correct-. 

A  man  should  endeavour,  therefore,  to  make  the  sphere  of  his  inno- 
eent  pleasures  as  wide  as  possible,  that  he  may  retire  into  them  with 
eafety.  and  tind  in  them  such  a  satisfaction  as  a  wise  man  would  not 
blush  to  take. 

This  also  is  a  good  sentence,  and  exposed  to  no 
objection. 

Of  this  nature  are  those  of  the  imagination,  which  do  not  require 
such  a  bent  of  thought  as  is  necessary  to  our  more  serious  employ- 
ments ;  nor.  at  the  same  time,  suffer  the  mind  to  sink  into  that 
indolence  ani  remi-sness.  which  are  apt  to  accompany  our  more 
sensual  d"iii:hts  :  but  like  a  gentle  exercise  to  the  faculties,  awaken 
them  from  sloth  and  idleness,,  without  putting  them  upon  any  labour 
or  difacuity. 

The  beginning  of  this  sentence  is  incorrect.  Of 
this  nature.,  says  he,  are  those  of  the  imagination.  It 
might  be  asked,  of  what  nature  ?  For  the  preced- 
ing sentence  had  not  described  the  nature  of  any 
class  of  pleasures.  He  had  said  that  it  was  every 
man's  duty  to  make  the  sphere  of  his  innocent  plea- 
sures as  extensive  as  possible,  that  within  this  sphere 
he  might  find  a  safe  retreat  and  laudable  satisfaction. 
The  transition  therefore  is  loosely  made.    It  would 


Cit«  this  sentence.— Said  of  it  ? 
Cite  the  next.— Said  of  it  ? 

Cite  the  next  — What  is  incorrect  in  it?-  "What  wotildhaTe  oeoa 
better  ? 


I'SO  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION,  ETO. 

have  been  better,  if  he  had  said,  "  this  advantage  we 
gain,"  or  "this  satisfaction  we  enjoy,"  by  means  of 
the  pleasure  of  the  imagination.  The  rest  of  the  sen- 
tence is  correct. 

,  We  might  here  add.  that  the  pleasures  of  the  fancy  are  m -re  con- 
ducive to  health  than  those  of  the  understanding,  which  are  worked 
out  by  dint  of  thinking  ;  and  attended  with  too  violent  a  labour  of 
the  brain. 

Worked  out  by  dint  of  thinhing,  is  a  phrase,  which 
borders  too  nearly  on  the  style  of  common  conver- 
sation, to  be  admitted  into  polished  composition. 

Delightful  scenes,  whether  in  nature,  painting,  or  poetry,  havfl  a 
kindly  influence  on  the  h^Ay.  as  wfll  as  the  mind  ;  and  not  only 
serve  to  clear  and  brighten  the  imagination,  but  are  able  to  disperse 
grief  and  melancholy,  and  to  set  the  animal  spirits  in  pleasing  and 
agreeable  motions  For  this  reason.  Sir  Francis  Bacon  in  his  Essay 
upon  Health,  has  not  thought  it  improper  to  prescribe  to  his  reader 
a  poem  or  a  prospect,  whei'e  he  particularly  di-suades  him  from 
knotty  and  subtle  disquisitions,  and  advises  him  to  pursue  studies 
that  fill  the  mind  with  splendid  and  illustrious  objects,  as  histories, 
fables,  and  contemplations  of  nature. 

In  the  latter  of  these  two  periods  a  member  is  out 
of  its  place.  Where  he  particularly  dissuades  him 
fror)i  knotty  and  subtle  disquisitions  ought  to  precede 
has  not  thought  it  improper  to  prescribe^  (&c. 

I  have  in  this  paper,  by  way  of  introduction,  settled  the  motion  of 
those  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  which  are  the  subject  of  my 
present  undertaking;  and  endeavoured,  by  several  considerations, 
to  recommend  to  my  readers  the  pursuit  of  those  pleasures  ;  I  shall, 
in  my  next  paper,  examine  the  several  sources  from  whence  these 
pleasures  are  derived. 

These  two  concluding  sentences  furnish  examples 
of  proper  collocation  of  circumstances.  We  formerly 
showed  that  it  is  difficult  so  to  dispose  them,  as  not 
to  embarrass  the  principal  subject.  Had  the  following 
incidental  circumstances,  by  way  of  introduction — 


Cite  this  sentence. — Said  of  the  phrase,  loorked  out  by  dint  of 
thinking  ! 

Cite  the  next  —Said  of  the  latter  of  these  two  periods? 
Cite  the  next.— Said  of  these  two  concluding  sent^^nces? 


ELOQUENCE. 


131 


by  several  considerations — in  this  pa2:)er — in  the  next 
paper,  been  placed  in  any  other  situation,  the  sentence 
Ts-oukl  have  been  neither  so  neat,  nor  so  clear,  as  it  is 
in  the  present  construction. 


LECTURE  XXL 

ELOQUEXCE.— ORIGIX  OF  ELOQUEXCE.— GEECIAN 
ELOQUENCE.  -DEMOSTHEXES. 

^Eloquexce  is  the  art  of  persuasion.  Its  most 
essential  r-^.jui-ites  are  sohcl  argument,  clear  method, 
and  an  a]:>]:>earance  of  Jmcerit j  in  the  speaker,  with 
such  graces'or'iETe  and  utterance  as  command  atten- 
tion. Good  sense  must  be  its  foundation.  Without 
this  no  man  can  be  truly  eloquent ;  since  fDols  can 
pei-suade  none  but  fools.  Before  we  can  persuade  a 
man  of  sense,  we  must  convince  him.  Convincing 
and  persujiding,  though  sometimes  confounded,  are  of 
very  diftcj-ent  import.  Connction  affects  the  under- 
standing only :  persuasion  the  will  and  the  practice. 
It  is  the  business  of  a  philosopher  to  conduce  us  of 
truth ;  it  is  that  of  an  orator  to  pei*suade  us  to  act 
conformably  to  it,  by  engaging  our  affections  in  its 
favour.  Con^-iction  is,  however,  our  avenue  to  the 
heart,  and  it  is  that  Avhich  an  orator  must  first  attempt 
to  gain ;  for  no  persuasion  can  be  stable,  which  is  not 
founded  on  comiction.  But  the  orator  must  not  be 
satisfied  vidth  con\dncing ;  he  must  address  himself  to 
the  passions  ;  he  must  paint  to  the  fency,  and  touch 


What  are  the  suhjects  of  thi>  bcture  ? 

What  is  eloquence  ? — What  are  its  most  essential  requisites  ? — 
WTiat  must  be  its  foundation  ?— Why  ? — Said  of  conyincing  and 
persuading? — What  does  conviction  effect? — What  persuasion? — 
What  is  the  business  of  a  philosophy  ?— Of  an  orator  ?— What  ia 
further  said  of  conviction  ? — Of  the  duty  of  an  ora':or  ?— Hence  what 
enter  into  the  idea  of  eloquence  ' 


132 


ELOQUENCE. 


tlie  heart.  Hence,  beside  solid  argument  and  clear 
method,  all  the  conciliating  and  interesting  arts  of 
composition  and  pronunciation  enter  into  the  idea  of 
eloquence. 

Eloquence  may  be  considered  as  consisting  of  three 
kinds,  or  degrees.  The  first  and  lowest  is  that  which 
aims  only  to  please  the  hearers.  Such,  in  general,  is 
the  eloquence  of  panegyrics,  inaugural  orations,  ad- 
dresses to  great  men,  and  other  harangues  of  this  kind. 
This  ornamental  sort  of  composition  may  innocently 
amuse  and  entertain  the  mind  ;  and  may  be  mixed  at 
the  same  time  with  very  useful  sentiments.  But  it 
must  be  acknowledged,  that  where  the  speaker  aims 
only  to  shine  and  to  please,  there  is  great  danger  of 
art  being  strained  into  ostentation,  and  of  the  compo- 
sition becoming  tiresome  and  insipid. 

The  second  degree  of  eloquence  is,  when  the 
speaker  aims,  not  merely  to  please,  but  also  to  inform, 
to  instruct,  to  convince;  when  his  art  is  employed  in 
removing  prejudices  against  himself  and  his  course ; 
in  selecting  the  most  proper  arguments,  stating  them 
with  the  greatest  force,  arranging  them  in  the  best 
order,  expressing  and  delivering  them  with  propriety 
and  beauty ;  thereby  disposing  us  to  pass  that  judg- 
ment, or  favour  that  side  of  the  cause,  to  which  he 
seeks  to  bring  us.  Within  this  degree  chiefly  is  em- 
ployed the  eloquence  of  the  bar. 

The  third  and  highest  degree  of  eloquence  is  that 
by  which  we  are  not  only  convinced,  but  interested, 
and  agitated,  and  earned  along  with  the  speaker ;  our 
passions  rise  with  his  ;  we  share  all  his  emotions  ;  we 
love,  we  hate,  we  resent,  as  he  inspires  us ;  and  are 
prompted  to  resolve  and  act  with  vigour  and  warmth. 


How  many  kinds  or  dea;rees  does  eloquence  consist  of? — What 
the  firbt  and  lowest  1 — Said  of  this  ornamental  Bort  of  composi- 
tion ? 

What  is  the  second  degree  of  eloquence  ? 
What  is  the  third  and  highest  degree  t 


ELOQUENCE. 


133 


Debate  in  popular  assemblies  opens  tlie  most  exten- 
sive field  to  this  species  of  eloquence  ;  and  the  pulpit 
also  admits  it. 

This  high  species  of  eloquence  is  always  the  off- 
spring of  passion.  By  passion  we  mean  that  state  of 
mind  in  Avhich  it  is  agitated  and  fired  by  some  objec 
in  view.  Hence  the  universally  acknowledged  powei 
of  enthusiasm  in  public  speakers  for  affecting  theii 
audience.  Hence  all  studied  declamations  and  la 
boured  ornaments  of  style,  which  show  the  mind  to 
be  cool  and  unmoved,  are  inconsistent  with  persuasive 
eloquence.  Hence  every  kind  of  affectation  in  gesture 
and  pronunciation  detracts  so  much  from  the  weight 
of  a  speaker.  Hence  the  necessity  of  being,  and  of 
being  believed  to  be,  disinterested  and  in  earnest,  in 
order  to  persuade. 

In  tracing  the  origin  of  eloquence,  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  go  far  back  into  the  early  ages  of  the  world, 
to  search  for  it  among  the  monuments  of  eastern  or 
Egyptian  antiquity.  In  those  ages,  it  is  true,  there 
was  a  certain  kind  of  eloquence  ;  but  it  is  more  nearly- 
allied  to  poeiry,  than  to  what  we  properly  call  ora- 
tory. While  the  intercourse  of  men  was  unfrequent, 
and  force  was  the  principal  means  employed  in  de- 
ddmg  controvei-sies,  the  arts  of  oratory  and  persua- 
sion, of  reasoning  and  debate,  could  be  little  known. 
The  first  empires  were  of  the  despotic  kind.  A  sin- 
gle person,  or  at  most  a  few,  held  the  reins  of  gov- 
ernment. The  multitude  were  accustomed  to  bhnd 
obedience  ;  they  were  driven,  not  persuaded.  Con- 
sequently, none  of  those  refinements  of  society,  which. 


What  is  the  high  species  of  eloquence  the  offspring  of?— What  is 
meant  by  passion  ? — Hence  the  power  of  what  is  acknowledged  ? — 
Hence  what  are  inconsistent  with  persuasive  eloquence  T — Hence 
what  detracts  from  the  weight  of  a  speaker  1 — Hence  what  is  neces- 
sary in  order  to  persuade  1 

In  tracing  the  origin  of  eloquence  what  is  not  necessary  ' — What 
kind  of  eloquence  was  there  in  those  ages  ? — What  reasons  are 
assigned  why  the  arts  of  oratory  were  littls  known  iiv.  the  earlj 
ages  ' 

12 


134 


GRECIAN  ELOQUENCE. 


make  public  speaking  an  object  of  importance,  were 
introduced. 

Before  tbe  rise  of  tbe  Grecian  republics,  we  per- 
ceive no  remarkable  appearance  of  eloquence,  as  the 
art  of  persuasion ;  and  these  gave  it  such  a  field  as  it 
never  had  before,  and  perhaps  has  never  had  again 
since  that  time.  Greece  was  divided  into  many  little 
states.  These  were  governed  at  first  by  kings  ;  who 
being  for  their  tyranny  successively  expelled  from 
their  dominions,  there  sprung  up  a  multitude  of  demo- 
cratical  governments,  founded  nearly  upon  the  same 
plan,  animated  by  the  same  high  spirit  of  freedom, 
mutually  jealous,  and  rivals  of  each  other.  Among 
these  Athens  was  most  noted  for  arts  of  every  kind, 
but  especially  for  eloquence.  We  shall  pass  over  the 
orators  who  flourished  in  the  early  period  of  this  re- 
public, and  take  a  view  of  the  great  Demosthenes,  in 
whom  eloquence  shone  with  unrivalled  splendour. 
Not  formed  by  nature  either  to  please  or  persuade, 
he  struggled  with,  and  surmounted,  the  most  formida- 
ble impediments.  He  shut  himself  up  in  a  cave,  that 
he  might  study  with  less  distraction.  He  declaimed 
by  the  sea-shore,  that  he  might  be  used  to  the  noise 
of  a  tumultuous  assembly ;  and  with  pebbles  in  his 
mouth,  that  he  might  correct  a  defect  in  his  speech. 
He  practised  at  home  with  a  naked  sword  hanging 
over  his  shoulder,  that  he  might  check  an  ungraceful 
motion  to  which  he  was  subject.  Hence  the  example 
of  this  great  man  affords  the  highest  encouragement 
to  every  student  of  eloquence  ;  since  it  shows  how  far 
art  and  application  availed  for  acquiring  an  excellence, 
which  nature  appeared  willing  to  deny. 


What  do  vre  not  perceive  before  the  rise  of  the  Grecian  republics  ? 
^What  did  these  give  it  ? — How  was  Greece  divided  ? — Uo^  were 
these  at  first  governed  ?— Upon  their  expulsion  what  sprung  up  ?— . 
Which  was  the  most  noted  among  these  for  arts  of  every  kind  ?— 
Whom  does  the  author  say  he  shall  pass  over  ? — Take  a  view  of 
whom  ?— Said  of  him  ?— What  did  he  do  ?— What  does  his  example 
affor<i  ?— What  does  it  show  i 


DEMOSTHENES. 


135 


No  orator  had  ever  a  finer  field  than  Demosthenes 
in  his  Olynthiacs  and  Philippics,  which  are  his  capital 
orations  ;  and  undoubtedly  to  the  greatness  of  the  sub- 
ject, and  to  that  integrity  and  public  spirit  which 
breathe  in  them,  they  owe  much  of  their  merit.  The 
object  is  to  rouse  the  indignation  of  his  countrymen 
against  Philip  of  Macedon,  the  public  enemy  of  the 
hberties  of  Greece;  and  to  guard  them  against  the 
insichous  measures  by  which  that  crafty  prince  en- 
deavoured to  lay  them  asleep  to  danger.  To  attain 
this  end,  we  see  him  using  every  proper  mean,  to  ani- 
mate a  people,  distinguished  by  justice,  humanity,  and 
valour ;  but  in  many  instances  become  corrupt  and 
degenerate.  He  boldly  accuses  them  of  venality,  in- 
dolence, and  indifference  to  the  public  cause  ;  while 
at  the  same  time  he  reminds  them  of  the  glory  of  their 
ancestors,  and  of  their  present  resources.  His  contem- 
porary o]-ators,  who  were  bribed  by  Philip,  and  per- 
suaded the  people  to  peace,  he  openly  reproaches  as 
traitors  to  theh  country.  He  not  only  prompts  to 
vigorous  measures,  but  lays  down  the  plan  of  execu- 
tion. His  orations  are  strongly  animated  and  full  of 
the  impetuosity  and  fire  of  public  spirit.  His  compo- 
sition is  not  distinguished  by  ornament  and  splendour. 
It  is  energy  of  thought,  peculiarly  his  own,  which 
forms  his  character,  and  sets  him  above  all  others. 
He  seems  not  to  attend  to  words,  but  to  things.  W e 
forget  the  orator,  and  think  of  the  subject  He  has 
"no  parade  ;  no_studied  introductions  ;  but  is  like  a  man 
full  of  his  subject,  who,  after  preparing  his  audience 
by  a  sentence  or  two  for  hearing  plain  truths,  enters 
dhectly  on  business. 

The  style  of  Demosthenes  is  strong  and  concise  ; 


What  is  further  said  of  Demosthenes  ?— What  is  the  object  of  these 
orations  ?— To  attain  this  end  what  does  he  do  ?— Said  of  his  ora- 
tions ? — By  what  are  his  compositions  not  distinguished? — What  is 
it  then  which  forms  his  character,  and  sets  him  above  all  others  ?— 
What  is  further  said  of  him  ? 


136 


ROMAN  ELOQUENCE. 


thoiigli  sometimes  harsh  and  abrupt.  His  words  are 
very  expressive,  and  his  arrangement  firm  and  manly. 
Negligent  of  little  graces,  he  aims  at  that  subHme, 
which  lies  in  sentiment.  Ilis  action  and  pronuncia- 
tion were  uncommonly  vehement  and  ardent.  His 
character  is  of  the  austere,  rather  than  of  the  gentk 
kind.  He  is  always  grave,  serious,  passionate  ;  nevei 
degrading  himself,  nor  attempting  any  thing  like  plea- 
santry. If  his  admirable  eloquence  be  in  any  respect 
faulty,  it  is  in  this,  he  sometimes  borders  on  the  hard 
and  dry.  He  may  be  thought  to  want  smoothness  and 
gi-ace  ;  which  is  attributed  to  his  imitating  too  closely 
the  manner  of  Thucydides,  who  was  his  great  model 
for  style,  and  whose  history  he  transcribed  eight 
times  with  his  own  hand.  But  these  defects  are  more 
than  compensated,  by  that  masterly  force  of  mascu- 
line eloquence,  which,  as  it  overpowered  all  who 
heard  it,  cannot  in  the  present  day  be  read  without 
e.oiotion. 


LECTURE  XXH. 

BOMAN  ELOQUENCE.— CICERO.— MODERN 
ELOQUENCE. 

Having  treated  of  eloquence  among  the  Greeks, 
tv^e  now  proceed  to  consider  its  progress  among  the 


What  is  the  style  of  Demosthenes  1 — Ilis  words? — His  arrange- 
Jaent  1 — Negligent  of  what  ? — Aim?  at  what  ?— Said  of  his  action  and 
pronunciation? — What  is  his  character  J — What  i«  he  always  ?— If 
his  eloquence  be  faulty,  it  is  in  what  ? — His  want  of  smoothness  and 
grace  is  attributed  to  what  ? — By  what  are  these  defects  more  than 
compensated  ? 

What  are  the  subjects  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  has  been  treated  of  ?— To  what  are  we  now  to  proceed 


CICERO. 


Romans,  where  we  shall  find  one  model,  at  least,  of 
eloquence  in  its  most  splendid  form.  The  Roinans 
derived  their  eloquence,  poetry,  and  learning  fron:i  the, 
Greeks,  and  were  fai-  inferior  to  them  in  genius  foi'  all ' 
these  accompHshments.  They  had  neither  their  viva-; 
city,  nor  sensibility  ;  their  passions  were  not  so  easily 
moved,  nor  their  conceptions  so  lively  ;  in  comparison 
with  them, --they  were  a  phlegmatic  people.  Their 
.ano'uaofe  resembled  their  character  ;  ii  was  re£>'ular, 
firm  and  stately ;  but  wanted  that  expressive  snnphci- 
ty,  that  flexibihty  to  suit  every  diiferent  species  of 
composition,  by  which  the  Greek  tongue  is  pecuHarly 
distinguished.  Hence,  we  always  find  in  Greek  proP 
ductions  more  native  genius ;  in  Roman  more  regii:^ 
larity  and  art. 

As  the  Roman  government,  during  the  republic, 
was  of  the  popular  kind,  public  speaking  early  became 
the  mean  of  acquiring  power  and  distinction.  But  in 
the  unpolished  times  of  the  state,  their  •speaking  h^ird- 
ly  deserved  the  name  of  eloquence.  It  was  but  a  short 
time  before  the  age  of  Cicero,  that  the  Roman  orators 
rose  into  any  reputation.  Crassus  and  Antonius  seem 
to  have  been  the  most  eminent ;  but  as  none  of  their 
works  are  extant,  nor  any  of  Hortensius's,  who  was 
Cicero's  rival  at  the  bar,  it  is  not  necessary  to  tran- 
scribe what  Cicero  said  of  them,  and  of  the  character 
of  their  eloquence. 

The  object  most  worthy  of  onr  attention  is  Cicero 
himself  ;  whose  name  alone  suggests  every  thing 


— Where  we  shall  find  what  ? — From  -whom  did  the  Romans  derive 
their  eloquence  ?— And  were  what  ? — What  had  they  not  ? — What 
were  they  in  comparison  with  ihem  ? — What  did  their  language 
resemble  ?— What  was  it  ?— But  wanted  what  ?— Hence  what  do  we 
find  ? 

What  was  the  Roman  government  during  the  republic  ? — Public 
speaking  became  the  mean  of  acqiiiring  what  ?— How  was  it  in  the 
unpolished  times  of  the  state  ?— When  did  the  Roman  oi-ators  rise 
into  reputation  ? — Who  were  the.  most  eminent  1 — Whose  works  are 
not  extant  ? — What  is  not  necessary  ? 

What  object  is  most  worthy  of  our  attention  ?— Whose  name  sug- 

12* 


138 


CICERO. 


Eplendid  in  oratory.  With  liis  life  and  character,  in 
other  respects,  we  are  not  at  present  concerned.  We 
shall  view  him  only  as  an  eloquent  speaker ;  and  en- 
deavour to  mark  both  his  virtues  and  defects.  His 
virtues  are  eminently  great.  In  all  his  orations,  art  is 
conspicuous.  He  begins  commonly  Avith  a  regular 
exordium ;  and,  with  much  address,  prepossesses  the 
hearers,  and  studies  to  gain  their  affections.  His  me- 
thod is  clear,  and  his  arguments  arranged  with  great 
propriety.  In  clearness  of  method  he  has  advantage 
over  Demosthenes.  Every  thing  is  in  its  proper  place; 
he  never  attempts  to  move  before  he  has  endeavoured 
to  convince;  and  in  moving,  particularly  the  softer 
passions,  he  is  very  successful.  No  one  ever  knew 
the  force  of  words  better  than  Cicero.  He  rolls  them 
along  with  the  greatest  beauty  and  pomp  ;  and  in  the 
structure  of  his  sentences,  is  eminently  curious  and 
exact.  He  is  always  full  and  flowing ;  never  abrupt. 
He  amplifies  every  thing ;  yet,  though  his  manner 
is  on  the  whole  diffuse,  it  is  often  happily  varied, 
and  suited  to  the  subject.  When  a  gi-eat  pubhc  ob- 
ject roused  his  mind,  and  demanded  indignation 
and  force,  he  departs  considerably  from  that  loose 
and  declamatory  manner,  to  which  he  at  other  times 
is  addicted,  and  becomes  very  forcible  and  vehe- 
ment. 

This  great  orator,  however,  is  not  without  defects. 
In  most  of  his  orations,  there  is  too  much  art.  He 
seems  often  desirous  of  obtaining  admiration,  rather 


gp?':s  -what  ?— With  what,  in  other  respects,  are  we  not  concern- 
ed T — How  shall  we  view  him  ? — Endeavour  to  do  what  ? — Said  of 
his  virtues  .' — In  all  his  orations,  what  is  conspicuous  ?— How  does 
he  begin  ? — What  is  his  method  ? — How  are  his  arguments  arrang- 
ed ?— What  advantage  has  he  over  Demosthenes  ?— What  does  he 
not  attempt  to  do  first  ? — In  what  particularly  is  he  successful  ? — 
Said  of  his  knowledge  of  the  force  of  words  ? — How  does  he  roll 
them  ?— How  is  he  in  the  structure  of  his  sentences  ?— What  is  he 
always  ? — Is  never  what  ? — What  does  he  amplify  ? — Farther  said 
of  his  manner  ? — Said  of  hini  when  roused  by  aome  great  public 
ob.iect  f 

Was  this  great  orator  without  defects  ? — What  is  there  in  most 


CICERO. 


139 


than  of  operating  conviction.  He  is  sometimes,  there- 
fore, showy,  rather  than  sohd  ;  and  diffuse,  where  he 
ought  to  be  urgent.  His  periods  are  always  round 
and  sonorous ;  they  cannot  be  accused  of  monotony, 
for  they  possess  variety  of  cadence ;  but,  from  too 
great  fondness  for  magnificence,  he  is  sometimes  defl 
cient  in  strength.  Though  the  sei-vices  which  he  per- 
formed for  his  country  were  very  considerable,  yet  he 
is  too  much  his  own  panegyrist.  Ancient  manners, 
which  imposed  fewer  restraints  on  the  side  of  deco- 
rum, may  in  some  degree  excuse,  but  cannot  entirely 
justify,  his  vanity. 

Whether  Demosthenes  or  Cicero  were  the  most 
perfect  orator,  is  a  question  on  which  critics  are  not 
agreed.  Fenelon,  the  celebrated  archbishop  of  Cam- 
bray,  and  author  of  Telemachus,  seems  to  have  stated 
their  merits  with  great  justice  and  perspicuity.  His 
judgment  is  given  in  his  reflections  on  rhetoric  and 
poetry.  We  shall  translate  the  passage,  though  not, 
it  is  feared,  without  losing  much  of  the  spirit  of  the 
original.  '''I  do  not  hesitate  to  declare,"  says  he, 
"that  I  think  Demosthenes  superior  to  Cicero.  I  am 
persuaded  no  one  can  admire  Cicero  more  than  I  do. 
He  adorns  whatever  he  attempts.  He  does  honour  to 
language.  He  disposes  of  ^Yords  in  a  manner  peculiar 
to  himself  His  style  has  great  variety  of  character. 
Whenever  he  pleases,  he  is  even  concise  and  vehe- 
ment ;  for  instance,  against  Cataline,  against  Verres, 
against  Anthony.  But  ornament  is  too  visible  in  his 
writings.  His  art  is  wonderful,  but  it  is  perceived. 
When  the  orator  is  providing  for  the  safety  of  the 


of  his  orations  ? — What  does  he  seem  often  desirous  of? — What  is  he 
sometimes  T — How  are  his  periods  ?— What  is  he  sometimes  deficient 
in.  from  his  fondness  for  magnificence  ? — Said  of  the  services  per- 
formed for  his  country  ? — Yet  he  is  too  much  what  ? — What  may  in 
some  degree  excuse  this  ? — But  cannot  what  ? 

On  what  question  are  not  critics  agreed  ? — Who  has  stated  their 
merits  with  justice  and  perspicuity  ? — His  judgment  is  given  in 
what ' — Cite  the  passage  ? 

I 


140 


ELOQUENCE. 


republic,  lie  forgets  not  himself,  nor  permits  othei*s  to 
forget  him.  Demosthenes  seems  to  escape  from  him- 
self, and  to  see  nothing  but  his  country.  He  seeks 
not  elegance  of  expression  ;  unsought,  he  possesses  it. 
He  is  superior  to  admiration.  He  makes  use  of  ian-i 
guage,  as  a  modest  man  does  of  dress,  only  to  cover  - 
him.  He  thunders,  he  lightens.  He  is  a  torrent, 
which  carries  every  thing  before  it.  We  cannot  criti- 
cise, because  we  are  not  ourselves.  His  subject  en- 
chains our  attention,  and  makes  us  forget  his  language. 
We  lose  him  from  our  sight ;  Philip  alone  occupies 
our  minds.  I  am  delighted  with  both  these  orators  ; 
but  I  confess  that  I  am  less  affected  by  the  infinite  art 
and  magnificent  eloquence  of  Cicero,  than  by  the 
rapid  simplicity  of  Demosthenes." 

The  reign  of  eloquence  among  the  Romans  was 
very  short.  It  expired  with  Cicero.  Nor  can  we 
wonder  at  this ;  for  liberty  was  no  more,  and  the 
government  of  Rome  was  delivered  over  to  a  succes- 
sion of  the  most  execrable  tyrants,  that  ever  disgraced 
and  scourged  the  human  race. 

In  the  decline  of  the  Roman  Empire,  the  introduc- 
tion of  Christianity  gave  rise  to  a  new  kind  of  elo- 
quence, in  the  apologies,  sermons,  and  pastoral  wri- 
tings of  the  fathers.  But  none  of  them  afl'orded  very 
just  models  of  eloquence.  Their  language,  as  soon  as 
we  descend  to  the  thu'd  or  fourth  century,  becomes 
harsh  ;  and  they  are  generally  infected  with  the  taste 
of  that  age,  a  love  of  swollen  and  strained  thoughts,  ^ 
and  of  the  play  of  words.  | 

As  nothing  in  the  middle  ages  deserves  attention, 
we  pass  now  to  the  state  of  eloquence  in  modern 


Said  of  the  reign  of  eloquence  among  the  Romans  ?— It  expired 
inth  whom  ? — Why  can  we  not  wonder  at  this  ? 

In  the  decline  of  the  Roman  Empire,  what  did  the  introduction  of 
Christianity  give  rise  to  ?— Did  any  of  them  afford  very  just  models 
of  eloquence  ?— Said  of  their  language  ?— What  are  they  generally 
Infected  with  ? 


MODERX  ELOQUENCE. 


141 


times.  Here  it  must  be  confessed,  that  in  no  European 
TTSfion  public  speaking  lias  been  valued  so  biglily,  or 
cultivated  with  so  much  care,  as  in  Greece  or  Rome. 
The  genius  of  the  world  appears  in  this  respect  to 
have  undergone  some  alteration.  The  two  countries, 
where  we  might  expect  to  find  most  of  the  spirit  of 
eloquence,  are  France  and  Great  Biitain  ;  France,  on 
account  of  the  distinguiihed  turn  of  its  inhabitants 
toward  all  the  hberal  arts,  and  of  the  encouragement 
which,  more  than  a  century  past,  these  arts  have  re- 
ceived from  the  public  ;  Great  Britain,  on  account  of 
its  free  government,  and  the  hheral  spirit  and  genius 
of  its^peDpte.  Yet  in  neither  of  these  countries  has 
oratory  risen  nearly  to  the  degree  of  its  ancient  splen- 
doiu-. 

Several  reasons  may  be  given,  why  modern  elo 
quence  has  been  so  confined  and  humble  in  its  eff'orts. 
In  the  fii"st  place,  it  seems,  that  this  change  must,  in 
part,  be  ascribed  to  that_  accurate  turn  of  thinking, 
which  has  been  so  much  cultivated  in  modern  times. 
Our  public  speakers  are  obliged  to  be  more  reserved 
than  the  ancients,  in  their  attempts  to  elevate  the 
imagination,  and  w^arm  the  passions  ;  and  by  the  in- 
fluence of  prevaihng  taste,  then-  own  genius  is  chas- 
tened perhaps  in  too  great  a  degree.  It  is  probable, 
also,  that  we  ascribe  to  our  correctness  and  good  sense, 
what  is  chiefly  owing  to  the  phlegm  and  natural  cold- 
ness of  our  disposition.  For  the  "\"ivacity  and  sensi 
bility  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  especially  of  the 
former,  seem  to  have  been  much  superior  to  ours,  and 
to  have  given  them  a  higher  relish  for  aU  the  beauties 
of  oratory. 

Though  the  parliament  of  Great  Britain  is  the 

To  what  do  we  now  pa^s  ?— WTiat  must  here  he  confessed  ? — Said 
of  the  genius  of  the  world  ?— In  what  iwo  countries  might  we  ex 
pect  to  find  the  spirit  of  eloquence  ?— Why  France  ? — Why  Great 
Britain  1 — Said  of  oratory  in  these  two  countries  ? 

What  reasons  are  assigned  why  modern  eloquence  has  heen  so 
confined  and  hum  bie  iu  its  efforts  J 


142 


MODERN  ELOQUENCE. 


noblest  field  which  Europe  at  present  affords  to  a 
public  speaker,  yet  eloquence  has  ever  been  there  a 
more  feeble  instrument  than  in  the  popular  assemblies 
of  Greece  and  Rome.  Under  some  foreign  reigns, 
the  iron  hand  of  arbitrary  power  checked  its  efforts  ; 
and  in  later  times,  ministerial  influence  has  generally 
rendered  it  of  small  importance.  At  the  bar,  our 
disadvantage,  in  comparison  with  the  ancients,  is  great. 
Among  them,  the  judges  were  commonly  numerous ; 
the  laws  were  few  and  simple  ;  the  decision  of  causes 
was  left,  in  a  great  measure,  to  equity  and  the  sense 
of  mankind.  Hence,  the  field  for  judicial  eloquence 
was  ample.  But  at  present,  the  system  of  law  is 
much  more  complicated.  The  knowledge  of  it  is  ren 
dered  so  laborious,  as  to  be  the  study  of  a  man's  life. 
Speaking  is  therefore  only  a  secondary  accomplish- 
ment, for  which  he  has  little  leisure. 

With  respect  to  the  pulpit,  it  has  been  a  great  dis- 
advantage, that  the  practice  of  reading  sermons,  in- 
stead of  repeating  them,  has  prevailed  so  universally 
in  England.  This  indeed  may  have  introduced  accu- 
racy ;  but  eloquence  has  been  much  enfeebled. 
Another  circumstance  too  has  been  prejudicial.  The 
sectaries  and  fanatics,  before  the  restoration,  used  a 
warm,  zealous,  and  popular  manner  of  preaching ; 
and  their  adherents  afterward  continued  to  distinguish 
themselves  by  similar  ardour.  Hatred  of  these  sects 
drove  the  established  church  into  the  opposite  extreme 
of  a  studied  coolness  of  expression.  Hence,  from  the 
art  of  persuasion,  which  preaching  ought  ever  to  be, 

/it  has  passed  in  England  into  mere  reasoning  and 

/  instruction. 


Said  of  eloquence  in  the  parliament  of  Great  Britain  ? — What  has 
checked  its  efforts  ?— Said  of  our  disadvantage  at  the  bar*? — What 
reasons  are  assigned  for  this  ? 

With  respect  to  the  pulpit,  what  has  been  of  great  disadvantage  T 
—What  other  circumstance  has  been  prejudicial! — Ilence,  what  ha* 
been  the  result  ? 


[143  J 


LECTURE  XXIII. 
ELOQUENCE  OF  POPULAR  ASSEMBLIES. 

The  foundation  of  every  species  of  eloquence  is 
good  sense  and  solid  thought.  It  should  be  the  fifst 
study  of  him  who  means  to  address  a  popular  assem- 
bly, to  be  previously  master  of  the  business  on  which 
he  is  to  speak  ;  to  be  well  pro\dded  with  matter  and 
argument  ;  and  to  rest  upon  these  the  chief  stress. 
This  will  give  to  his  discourse  an  air  of  manliness  and 
strength,  which  is  a  pov/erful  instrument  of  persuasion. 
Ornament,  if  we  have  genius  for  it,  will  succeed  of 
course  ;  at  any  rate,  it  deserves  only  secondary  re- 
gard. 

To  become  a  persuasive  speaker  in  a  popular  as- 
sembly, it  is  a  capital  rule,  that  a  man  should  always 
be  persuaded  of  whatever  he  recommends  to  others.  •  - 
^ever,  if  it  can  be  avoided,  should  he  espouse  that 
side  of  an  argument  which  he  does  not  believe  to  be 
the  right.  All  high  eloquence  must  be  the  offspring 
of  passion.  This  makes  every  man  persuasive,  and 
gives  a  force  to  his  genius,  which  it  cannot  otherwise 
possess. 

Debate  in  popular  assemblies  seldom  allows  a 
speaker  that  previous  preparation,  which  the  pulpit 
always,  and  the  bar  sometimes,  admit.  A  general 
prejudice  prevails,  and  not  an  unjust  one,  against  set 
speeches  in  public  meetings.  At  the  opening  of  a 
debate  they  may  sometimes  be  introduced  with  pro- 


What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  is  the  foundation  of  every  species  of  eloquence  ? — What 
should  le  the  first  study  of  him  -who  means  to  address  a  popular  as- 
sembly ? — What  ■will  this  give  to  his  discourse  ? — Said  of  ornament  1 

■\\  hat  is  necessary  to  become  a  persuasive  speaker  in  a  popular 
assembly  ? 

Said  of  debate  in  popular  assemblies? — Against  'what  does  a 
general  |rejudice  prevail  ? — When  may  they  be   introduced  ? — 


144 


ELOQUENCE  OF 


priety;  but,  as  the  debate  advances,  they  become 
improper;  they  lose  the  appearance  of  being  sug- 
gested by  the  business  that  is  going  on.  Study  and 
ostentation  are  apt  to  be  visible ;  and,  consequently, 
though,  admired  as  elegant,  they  are  seldom  so  per- 
jiiuasive  as  more  free  and  unconstrained  discourses. 

This,  however,  does  not  forbid  premeditation  on 
what  we  intend  to  speak.  With  respect  to  the  matter, 
we  cannot  be  too  accurate  in  our  preparation ;  but 
with  regard  to  words  and  expressions,  it  is  very  pos- 
sible so  far  to  overdo,  as  to  render  our  speech  stiff  and 
precise.  Short  notes  of  the  substance  of  the  discourse 
are  not  only  allowable,  but  of  considerable  service,  to 
those  especially  who  are  beginning  to  speak  in  public. 
They  will  teach  them  a  degree  of  accuracy,  which, 
if  they  speak  frequently,  they  are  in  danger  of  losing. 
They  will  accustom  them  to  distinct  arrangement^ 
without  which  eloquence,  however  great,  cannot  pro- 
duce entire  conviction. 

Popular  assembhes  give  scope  for  the  most  animated 
manner  of  public  speaking.  Passion  is  easily  excited 
in  a  great  assembly,  where  the  movements  are  com- 
municated by  mutual  sympathy  between  the  orator 
and  the  audience.  That  ardour  of  speech,  that  vehe- 
mence and  glow  of  sentiment,  which  proceed  from  a 
mind  animated  and  inspired  by  some  great  and  public 
object,  form  the  peculiar  character  of  popular  elo- 
quence in  its  highest  degree  of  perfection. 

The  warmth,  however,  which  we  express,  must  be 
always  suited  to  the  subject ;  since  it  would  be  ridi- 
culous to  introduce  great  vehemence  into  a  subject  of 


When  do  they  become  improper  ? — What  are  apt  to  be  visible  ?— 
What,  consequently,  will  be  the  result  ? 

What  does  this  not  forbid  ?— Said  in  respect  to  the  matter?— In 
regard  to  words  ? — What  is  of  considerable  service  ? — What  will  they 
teach  them  ?— What  will  they  accustom  them  to  ? 

What  do  popular  assemblies  give  scope  for  ?— What  forms  the  pe- 
culiar character  of  popular  eloquence  in  its  highest  degree  of  per- 
fection ? 

What  is  said  of  the  warmth  which  we  express  T— What  would  b« 


POPULAR  ASSEMBLIES. 


145 


small  importance,  or  which  hj  its  nature  requires  to 
be  treated  with  calmness.    We  must  also  be  careful 
not  to  counterfeit  warmth  without  feeHng  it.  The 
best  rule  is,  to  follow  nature ;  and  never  to  attempt  a 
strain  of  eloquence  which  is  not  prompted  by  our  own 
genius.    A  speaker  may  acquire  reputation  and  in- 
fluence by  a  calm,  argumentative  manner.    To  reach 
[    the  pathetic  and  subHme  of  oratory,  requires  those 
(    strong  sensibilities  of  mind,  and  that  high  power  of  ^ 
\    expression,  which  are  ^ven  to  few. 

Even  when  vehemence  is  justified  by  the  subject, 
and  prompted  by  genius  ;  when  warmth  is  felt,  not 
feigned  ;  we  must  be  cautious,  lest  impetuosity  trans- 
port us  too  far.  If  the  speaker  lose  command  of  him- 
self, he  will  soon  lose  command  of  his  audience.  He 
must  begin  with  moderation,  and  study  to  w^arm  his 
hearers  gradually  and  equally  with  himself.  For,  if 
their  passions  be  not  in  unison  with  his,  the  discord 
will  soon  be  felt.  Respect  for  his  audience,  should 
always  lay  a  decent  restraint  upon  his  warmth,  and 
prevent  it  from  carrying  him  beyond  proper  limits. 
When  a  speaker  is  so  far  master  of  himself,  as  to 
preserve  close  attention  to  argument,  and  even  to  some 
degree  of  accurate  expression  ;  this  self-command, 
this  effort  of  reason,  in  the  midst  of  passion,  contri- 
butes in  the  highest  degree  both  to  please  and  to  per- 
suade. The  advantages  of  passion  are  afforded  for 
the  purposes  of  persuasion,  without  that  confusion 
and  disorder  which  are  its  usual  attendants. 

In  the  most  animated  strain  of  popular  speaking,  wo 
must  always  regard  what  the  public  ear  will  receiv 


ridiculous  ? — Of  what  must  we  be  careful  ? — What  is  the  best  rule  ? — 
What  may  a  speaker  acquire  ? — What  is  required  to  reach  the  pa 
thetic  and  sublime  of  oratory  ? 

Of  what  must  we  be  cautious  ? — What  if  the  speaker  lose  com- 
mand of  himself  ? — How  must  he  begin  ? — Study  to  do  what  ? — 
What  if  their  passions  be  not  in  unison  with  his  ? — Respect  for  hia 
audience  should  do  what  ? — What  will  contribute  in  a  high  degrwj 
both  to  please  and  persuade  ?— For  what  are  the  advantages  of  pas- 
sion afforded  ? 

13 


146        ELOQUENCE  OF  POPULAR  ASSEMBLIES. 

without  disgust.  Without  attention  to  this,  imitation 
■  of  ancient  orators  might  betray  a  speaker  into  a  bold- 
iness  of  manner,  with  which  the  coolness  of  modern 
taste  would  be  displeased.  It  is  also  necessary  to  at- 
tend with  care  to  the  decorums  of  time,  place,  and 
character.  No  ardour  of  eloquence  can  atone  for 
neglect  of  these.  No  one  should  attempt  to  speak  in 
public  without  forming  to  himself  a  just  and  strict 
idea  of  what  is  suitable  to  his  age  and  character 
what  is  suitable  to  the  subject,  to  the  hearers,  the 
place,  and  the  occasion.  On  this  idea  he  should  adjust 
the  whole  train  and  manner  of  his  speaking. 

What  degi-ee  of  conciseness  or  diftuseness  is  suited 
to  popular  eloquence,  it  is  not  easy  to  determine  with 
iprecision.  A  diffuse  manner  is  generally  considered 
.as  most  , proper.  There  is  danger,  however,  of  erring 
in  this  respect ;  by  too  diffuse  a  style,  public  speakers 
often  lose  more  in  point  of  strength,  than  they  gain  by 
fulness  of  illustration.  Excessive  conciseness  indeed 
must  be  avoided.  We  must  explain  and  inculcate ; 
but  confine  ourselves  within  certain  limits.  We  should 
never  forget  that,  however  we  may  be  pleased  with 
ihearing  ourselves  speak,  every  audience  may  be  tired ; 
and  the  moment  they  grow  weary,  our  eloquence  be- 
comes useless.  It  is  better,  in  general,  to  say  too  little 
than  too  much ;  to  place  our  thought  in  one  strong 
point  of  view,  and  rest  it  there,  and  by  showing  it  in 
every  light,  than  pouring  forth  a  profusion  of  words 
upon  it,  to  exhaust  the  attention  of  our  hearers,  and 
leave  them  languid  and  fatigued. 


In  the  most  animated  strain  of  public  speaking,  what  must  we  al- 
ways regard  ? — What  if  this  be  not  attended  to  ? — What  is  also  neces- 
sary ?— What  cannot  atone  for  the  neglect  of  these  ?— No  one  should 
attempt  to  speak  in  public  without  doing  what  ? 

What  is  not  easy  to  determine  with  precision  ? — Said  of  a  diffuse 
manner  T— What  error  are  we  in  danger  of  ?— What  must  be  avoid- 
ed ?— We  must  do  what  ?— We  should  neyer  forget  what  ?— It  is  bet- 
ter in  general  to  do  what  ' 


[147] 


LECTURE  XXIV. 

ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  BAR. 

The  ends  of  speaking  at  the  bar  and  in  popular 
assemblies  are  commonly  different.  In  the  latter,  the 
orator  aims  principally  to  persuade  ;  to  determine  his 
hearers  to  some  choice  or  conduct,  as  good,  fit,  or 
useful.  He  therefore  applies  himself  to  every  prin- 
ciple of  action  in  our  nature  ;  to  the  passions  and  tc 
the  heart,  as  well  as  to  the  understanding.  But  at 
the  bar,  conviction  is  the  principal  object.  There,  the 
speaker's  duty  is  not  to  persuade  the  judges  to  what 
is  good  or  useful,  but  to  exhibit  what  is  just  and  true ; 
and,  consequently,  his  eloquence  is  chiefly  addressed 
to  the  understanding. 

At  the  bar,  speakers  address  themselves  to  one,  or 
to  a  few  judges,  who  are  generally  persons  of  age, 
gra\dty,  and  dignity  of  character.  There,  those  ad- 
vantages which  a  mixed  and  numerous  assembly 
affords  for  employing  all  the  arts  of  speech,  are  not 
enjoyed.  Passion  does  not  rise  so  easily.  The 
speaker  is  heard  with  more  coolness  ;  he  is  watched 
with  more  severity ;  and  would  expose  himself  to 
i-idicule  by  attempting  that  high  and  vehement  tone 
which  is  suited  only  to  a  multitude.  Besides,  at  the 
bar,  the  field  of  speaking  is  confined  within  law  and 


What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

Are  the  ends  of  public  speaking  at  the  bar  and  in  popular  assem- 
blies different  ? — In  the  latter,  what  does  the  orator  aim  at  f — To 
•what  does  he  apply  himself  therefore  ? — What  is  the  principal  object 
at  the  bar  ? — What  is  the  speaker's  duty  there  ? 

At  the  bar.  to  whom  do  speakers  generally  address  themselves  T — 
What  advantages  are  not  enjoyed  there  1 — What  does  not  rise  so 
easily  ? — How  is  the  speaker  heard  and  watched  ? — On  what  grormd 
Would  he  expose  himself  to  ridicule  ? — At  the  bar,  within  what  ifl 


148 


ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  BAR. 


statute.  Imagination  is  fettered.  The  advocate  has 
always  before  him  the  Kne,  the  square,  and  the  com- 
pass. These  it  is  his  chief  business  to  be  constantly 
applying  to  the  subjects  under  debate. 

Hence,  the  eloquence  of  the  bar  is  of  a  nauch  more 
limited,  more  sober,  and  chastised  kind,  than  that  of 
popular  assemblies ;  and,  consequently,  the  judicial 
orations  of  the  ancients  must  not  be  considered  as 
exact  models  of  that  kind  of  speaking  which  is 
adapted  to  the  present  state  of  the  bar.  With  them, 
strict  law  was  much  less  an  object  of  attention,  than 
it  is  with  us.  In  the  days  of  Demosthenes  and 
Cicero,  the  municipal  statutes  were  few,  simple,  and 
general;  and  the  decision  of  causes  was  left,  in  a 
great  measure,  to  the  equity  and  common  sense  of 
the  judges.  Eloquence,  rather  than  jurisprudence, 
was  the  study  of  pleaders.  Cicero  says,  that  three 
months'  study  would  make  a  complete  civilian ;  nay, 
it  was  thought  that  a  man  might  be  a  good  pleader 
without  any  previous  study.  Among  the  Romans, 
there  was  a  set  of  men,  called  Pragmatici,  whose 
office  it  was  to  supply  the  orator  with  all  the  law 
knowledge  his  cause  required ;  which  he  disposed  in 
that  popular  form,  and  decorated  with  those  colours 
of  eloquence,  which  were  most  fitted  for  influencing 
the  judges. 

It  may  also  be  observed,  that  the  civil  and  criminal 
judges  in  Greece  and  Rome  were  more  numerous 
than  with  us,  and  formed  a  kind  of  popular  assembly. 


the  field  of  speaking  confined  ?— What  is  fettered  ?— What  has  the 
advocate  always  before  him  ? — What  is  his  chief  business  with 
these  ? 

Hence,  what  is  the  eloquence  of  the  bar  ? — Said  of  the  judicial 
orations  of  the  ancients  ?— How  was  strict  law  with  them  ? — What 
were  the  principal  statutes  in  the  days  of  Demosthenes  and  Cicero? 
— To  what  was  the  decision  of  causes  left  ? — What  was  the  study 
of  pleaders  ?— How  much  study  does  Cicero  say  would  make  a  com- 
plete civilian  ?— Said  of  the  Pragmatici  among  the  Romans  ?— Which 
he  disposed  and  decorated  how  ? 

What  is  said  of  the  civil  and  criminal  judges  in  Greece  and 


ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  BAR. 


149 


Tlie  celebrated  tribunal  of  the  Areopagus  at  Athens 
consisted  of  fifty  judges  at  least.  In  Rome,  the  Ju~ 
dices  Selecti  were  always  numerous,  and  had  the  office 
and  power  of  judge  and  jmy.  In  the  famous  cause 
of  Milo,  Cicero  spoke  to  Mtj-one  Judices  Selecti,  and 
thus  had  the  advantage  of  addressing  his  whole  plead- 
ing, not  to  one  or  a  few  learned  judges  of  the  point 
of  law,  as  is  the  case  with  us,  but  to  an  assembly  of 
Roman  citizens.  Hence  those  arts  of  popular  elo- 
quence, which  he  employed  with  such  success. 
Hence  certain  practices,  which  would  be  reckoned 
theatrical  by  us,  were  common  at  the  Roman  bar ; 
such  as  introducing,  not  only  the  accused  person 
dressed  in  deep  mourning,  but  presenting  to  the 
judges  his  family  and  young  childi'en,  endeavouring 
to  excite  pity  by  theh  cries  and  tears. 

The  foundation  of  a  lawyers  reputation  and  success 
must  be  laid  in  a  profound  knowledge  of  his  profes- 
sion. If  his  abilities,  as  a  speaker,  be  ever  so  emi- 
nent; yet^  if  his  knowledge  of  the  law  be  superficial, 
few  will  choose  to  engage  him  in  their  defence.  Be- 
sides preWous  study  and  an  ample  stock  of  acquired 
knowledge,  another  thing,  inseparable  from  the  suc- 
cess of  every  pleader,  is  a  diligent  and  painful  atten- 
tion to  every  cause  with  which  he  is  intrusted ;  to  all 
the  facts  and  circumstances  with  wliich  it  is  connect- 
ed. Thus  he  Tvill,  in  a  great  measure,  be  prepared  for 
the  arguments  of  his  opponent ;  and,  being  predously 
acquainted  with  the  weak  parts  of  his  own  cause,  he 


Rome?— Ho\r  many  judges  did  the  celebrated  tribunal  of  the  Are- 
opagus consist  of?— Said  of  the  Judicps  Selecti?— In  the  famous 
cause  of  Milo.  how  many  did  Cicero  speak  to  ? — What  advantage 
had  he  ?— Hence,  what  did  he  employ  with  success  Hence;  what 
practices  were  common  ? 

In  what  must  the  foundation  of  a  lawyer's  reputation  and  suc- 
cess be  laid  • — What  if  his  knowledge  of  law  be  superficial,  however 
eminent  his  abilities  as  a  speaker  ?— Besides  previous  study,  &o., 
what  other  thing  is  inseparable  from  the  success  of  every  pleader  ^—  - 
What  advantage  will  he  have,  therefore  ? 

13* 

1  . 


150 


ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  BAR. 


will  be  able  to  fortify  them  in  the  best  manner  against 
the  attack  of  his  adversary. 

Though  the  ancient  popular  and  vehement  manner 
of  pleading  is  now  in  a  great  measure  superseded,  we 
must  not  infer  that  there  is  no  room  for  eloquence  at 
the  bar,  and  that  the  study  of  it  is  superfluous.  There 
is  perhaps  no  scene  of  public  speaking  whe.r^  elo 
"quence  is  more  requisite.  The  dryness  and  subtlety 
"of  subjects  usually  agitated  at  the  bar  require,  more 
than  any  other,  a  certain  kind  of  eloquence,  in  order 
to  command  attention,  to  give  proper  weight  to  the 
arguments  employed,  and  to  prevent  what  the  pleader 
advances  from  passing  unregarded.  The  effect  of 
good  speaking  is  always  great.  There  is  as  much 
difference  in  the  impression  made  by  a  cold,  dryj  and 
confused  speaker,  and  that  made  by  one  who  pleads 
the  same  cause  with  elegance,  order  and  strength,  as 
there  is  between  our  conception  of  an  object  when 
presented  in  twilight,  and  when  viewed  in  the  efful- 
gence of  noon. 

purity  and  neatness  of  expression  are,  in  this  spe- 
cies of  eloquence,  chiefly  to  be  studied ;  a  style  per- 
spicuous and  proper,  not  needlessly  overcharged  with 
the  pedantry  of  law  terms,  nor  affectedly  avoiding 
these,  when  suitable  and  requisite.  Verbosity  is  a 
fault  of  which  men  of  this  profession  are  frequently 
accused ;  into  which  the  habit  of  speaking  and  writ- 
ing hastily,  and  with  little  preparation,  almost  una- 
voidably betrays  them.  It  cannot,  therefore,  be  too 
earnestly  recommended  to  those  who  are  Oeginning  to 
practise  at  the  bar,  that  they  early  guard  against  this, 
while  they  have  leisure  for  preparation.    Let  them 


What  is  in  a  great  measure  superseded  ? — What  inu!=t  we  not 
infer  ? — Why  is  a  certain  kind  of  eloquence  necessary  at  the  bar?  — 
Said  of  the  effect  of  good  speaking  ? 

What  is  chiefly  to  be  studied  in  this  species  of  eloquence? — 
What  is  a  fault  of  which  men  of  this  profession  have  been  accused  T 
— IIow  may  they  guard  against  it? — What  if  a  loose  and  negligent 
etjle  1i  e  suffered  to  become  familiar  ? 


ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  BAR. 


151 


form  tliera.-elves  to  tlie  liabit  of  a  strong  and  coiTect 
style ;  ^vliich  will  become  natural  to  tlieni  afterward, 
when  compelled  by  multiplicity  of  business  to  com- 
pose with  precipitation.  Whereas,  if  a  loose  ana 
negligent  style  have  been  suffered  to  become  familiar, 
they  will  not  be  able,  even  upon  occasions  when  they 
wdsh  to  make  an  unusual  effort,  to  express  themselves 
with  force  and  elegance. 

Distinctness  in  speaking  at  the  bar  is  a  capital  pro- 
perty. It  should  be  shown,  first,  in  statii;g  the  ques- 
tion ;  in  exhibiting  clearly  the  point  in  debate  ;  what 
we  admit ;  what  we  deny ;  and  where  the  line  of 
di\dsion  begins  between  us  and  the  adverse  party. 
iSText,  il  should  appear  in  the  order  and  arrangement 
of  all  the  parts  of  the  pleading.  A  clear  method  is 
of  the  hiu-hest  consequence  in  every  species  of  ora- 
tion ;  but  in  those  intricate  cases  which  belong  to  the 
bar,  it  is  infinitely  essential. 

Narration  of  facts  should  always  be  concise  as  the 
nature  of  them  wih  admit.  Tliey  are  always  very 
necessary  to  be  remembered ;  consequently,  unneces- 
sary minuteness  in  relating  them  overloads  the  me- 
mory. "''.Vhereas,  if  a  pleader  omit  all  superfluous 
circumstances  in  his  recital,  he  adds  strength  to  the 
material  facts,  gives  a  clearer  view  of  what  he  relates, 
and  makes  the  impression  of  it  more  lasting.  In  ar- 
gumentation, however,  a  more  difluse  manner  seems 
requisite  at  the  bar  than  on  some  other  Occasions.  For 
in  popular  assemblies,  where  the  subject  of  debate  is 
often  a  plain  question,  arguments  gain  strength  by 
conciseness.  But  the  intricacy  of  law  points  fre- 
quently requires  the  arguments  to  be  expanded,  and 


WTiat  is  a  cajital  property  in  speaking  at  the  bar  ?— How  should 
it  be  shovrn  '—How  next  ?— Said  of  a  clear  methrid  ? 

How  5:hjL;ld  narration  of  facts  always  be' — \Vhat  the  effect  of 
omittin_'  all  sup-rfiuon?  cireitmstances Tn  what  and  where  is  a 
diffuse  manner  requisite  ? — Said  of  conciseness  in  ri  -p^ct  to  popu- 
lar  assemblies  ? — What  does  the  intricacy  of  law  points  frequently 
require  ? 

I 


152 


ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  BAR. 


placed  in  different  liglits,  in  order  to  be  fully  appre- 
hended. 

Candour  in  stating  the  arguments  of  his  adversary 
cannot  he  too  much  recommended  to  every  pleader. 
If  he  disguise  them,  or  place  them  in  a  false  light,  the 
artifice  will  soon  be  discovered ;  and  the  judge  and 
the  hearers  will  conclude,  that  he  either  wants  dis- 
cernment to  perceive,  or  fairness  to  admit,  the  strength 
of  his  opponent's  reasoning.  But,  if  he  state  with  ac- 
curacy and  candour  the  arguments  used  against  him, 
before  he  endeavours  to  combat  them,  a  strong  preju- 
dice is  created  in  his  favour.  He  will  appear  to  have 
entire  confidence  in  his  cause,  since  he  does  not  at- 
tempt to  support  it  by  artifice  or  concealment.  The 
judge  will  therefore  be  inclined  to  receive  more  readily 
the  impressions  made  upon  him  by  a  speaker  who 
appears  both  fair  and  penetrating. 

Wit  may  sometimes  be  serviceable  at  the  bar,  par- 
ticularly in  a  lively  reply,  by  which  ridicule  is  thrown 
on  what  an  adversary  has  advanced.  But  a  young 
pleader  should  never  rest  his  strength  on  this  daz- 
zling talent.  His  office  is  not  to  excite  laughter,  but 
to  produce  conviction  ;  nor  perhaps  did  any  one  ever 
rise  to  eminence  in  his  profession  by  being  a  witty 
lawyer. 

Since  an  advocate  personates  his  chent,  he  must 
plead  his  cause  with  a  proper  degree  of  warmth. 
He  must  be  cautious,  however,  of  prostituting  his 
earnestness  and  sensibility  by  an  equal  degree  of  ar- 
dour on  every  subject.  There  is  a  dignity  of  cha- 
racter, which  it  is  highly  important  for  every  one  of 
this  profession  to  support.    An  opinion  of  probity  and 


What  cannot  be  too  much  recommended  in  a  pleader  1 — What  if 
he  disguise  thena,  or  place  them  in  a  false  light  ? — What  if  he  state 
with  accuracy  and  candour  the  arguments  used  against  him  ? 

When  may  wit  be  serviceable  at  the  bar  ? — What  advice  is  given 
to  young  pleaders  in  respect  to  it  ? 

Whom  does  an  advocate  personate  ? — How  should  he  plead  his 
cause  ?— Of  what  must  he  be  cautious  ? — Said  of  supporting  digni- 


ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT. 


153 


honour  in  a  pleader  is  Ms  most  powerful  instrument 
of  persuasion.  He  should  always,  therefore,  decline 
embarking  in  causes  wliicli  are  odious,  and  mani- 
festly unjust ;  and,  when  he  supports  a  doubtful  cause, 
he  should  lay  the  chief  stress  upon  those  arguments 
w^hich  appear  to  him  to  be  most  forcible ;  reserving 
liis  zeal  and  indignation  for  cases  where  injustice  and 
iniquity  are  flagrant. 


LECTURE  XXV. 

ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

Having  treated  of  the  eloquence  of  popular  assem- 
bhes,  and  that  of  the  bar,  we  shall  now  consider  the 
strain  and  spirit  of  that  eloquence  which  is  suited  to 
the  pulpit.  This  field  of  public  speaking  has  several 
advantages  pecuhar  to  itself.  The  dignity  and  im- 
portance of  its  subjects  must  be  allowed  to  be  superior 
to  any  other.  They  admit  the  highest  embellishment 
in  description,  and  the  greatest  warmth  and  vehe- 
mence of  expression.  In  treating  his  subject,  the 
preacher  has  also  peculiar  advantages.  He  speaks  not 
to  one  or  a  few  judges,  but  to  a  large  assembly.  He 
is  not  afraid  of  interruption.  He  chooses  his  subject 
at  leisure ;  and  has  all  the  assistance  of  the  most  ac- 
curate premeditation.    The  disadvantages,  however 


ty  of  character  ?— What  is  his  most  powerful  instrument  of  persua- 
sion ? — What  should  he  therefore  always  decline  ? — Whal  should  he 
do  in  supporting  a  doubtful  cause! — Reserving;  his  zeal  and  indigna- 
tion for  what  ? 

What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  are  we  now  to  consider  ?— What  has  this  field  of  public 
speaking  J— Said  of  its  subjects  ?— What  do  they  admit  ?— What 
peculiar  advantages  has  the  preacher  ]— What  are  the  disadvanta* 


164  ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT. 


which  attend  the  eloquence  of  the  pulpit  are  not  in- 
considerable. The  preacher,  it  is  true,  has  no  con- 
tention with  an  adversary ;  but  debate  awakens  ge- 
nius, and  excites  attention.  His  subjects,  though  no- 
ble, are  trite  and  common.  They  are  become  so  fa- 
miliar to  the  public  ear,  that  it  requires  no  ordinary 
genius  in  the  preacher  to  fix  attention.  Nothing  is 
more  difficult  than  to  bestow  on  what  is  common  the 
grace  of  novelty.  Besides,  the  subject  of  the  preacher 
usually  confines  him  to  abstract  qualities,  to  virtues 
and  vices  ;  whereas  that  of  other  popular  speakers 
leads  them  to  treat  of  persons ;  which  is  generally  more 
interesting  to  the  hearers,  and  occupies  more  power- 
fully the  imagination.  We  are  taught  by  the  preacher 
to  detest  only  the  crime ;  by  the  pleader  to  detest  the 
criminal.  Hence  it  happens,  that  though  the  number 
of  moderately  good  preachers  is  great,  so  few  have 
arrived  at  eminence.  Perfection  is  very  distant  from 
modern  preaching.  The  object,  however,  is  truly 
noble,  and  worthy  of  being  pursued  with  zeal. 

To  excel  in  preaching,  it  is  necessary  to  have  a 
fixed  and  habitual  view  of  its  object.  This  is  to  per- 
suade men  to  become  good.  Every  sermon  ought, 
therefore,  to  be  a  persuasive  oration.  It  is  not  to 
discuss  some  abstruse  point,  that  the  preacher  ascends 
the  pulpit.  It  is  not  to  teach  his  hearers  something 
new,  but  to  make  them  better  ;  to  give  them  at  once 
clear  views  and  persuasive  impressions  of  religious 
ti'uths. 

The  principal  characteristics  of  pulpit  eloquence, 
as  distinguished  from  the  other  kinds  of  public  speak- 
ing, appear  to  be  these  two,  gravity  and  warmth. 


ges  which  attend  the  eloquence  of  the  pulpit  ?— Hence  what  hap- 
pens ? 

To  excel  in  preaching,  what  is  necessary  ? — What  should  every 
sermon  be  ?— What  is  not  the  object  of  the  preacher  in  ascending 
the  pulpit  ?— What  is  his  object  ? 

What  are  the  principal  characteristics  of  pulpit  eloquence  ?— 


ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT. 


155 


It  is  neither  easy  nor  common  to  imite  these  eliArac- 
tei-s  of  eloquence.  The  grave,  when  it  is  predomi- 
nant, becomes  a  dull,  uniform  solemnity.  The  warm, 
when  it  wants  gravity,  bordei-s  on  the  light  and  the- 
ati'ical.  A  proper  union  of  the  two  forms  that  cha- 
racter of  preaching  which  the  French  call  Onction  ; 
that  affecting,  penetrating,  and  interesting  manner, 
which  flows  from  a  strong  sense  in  the  preacher  of 
the  importance  of  the  truths  he  delivers,  and  an 
earnest  deshe  that  they  may  mate  full  impression  on 
the  hearts  of  his  hearers. 

A  sermon,  as  a  particular  species  of  composition, 
requhes  the  strictest  attention  to  unity.  By  this  we 
mean  that  there  should  be  some  mam  point  to  which 
the  whole  tenor  of  the  sermon  shall  refer.  It  must 
not  be  a  pile  of  dilferent  subjects  heaped  upon  each 
other  ;  but  one  object  must  predominate  through  the 
whole.  Hence,  however,  it  must  not  be  understood, 
that  there  should  be  no  didsions  or  separate  heads  in 
a  discourse  ;  nor  that  one  single  thought  only  should 
be  exhibited  in  different  points  of  ^^iew.  Unity  is  not 
to  be  understood  in  so  limited  a  sense  ;  it  admits  some 
variety  ;  it  rerjuires  only  that  union  and  connexion  be 
so  far  preserved,  as  to  make  the  whole  concm*  in 
some  one  impression  on  the  mind.  Thus,  for  in- 
stance, a  preacher  may  employ  several  different 
arguments  to  enforce  the  love  of  God  ;  he  may  also 
inquire  into  the  causes  of  the  decay  of  this  virtue : 
still,  one  gi-eat  object  is  presented  to  the  mind.  But, 
if  because  his  text  says,  "  He  that  loveth  God  must 
love  his  brother  also,"  he  should  therefore  mix  in  the 
same  discourse  arguments  for  the  love  of  God,  and 
for  the  love  of  our  neighboiu*,  he  would  gi'ossly 


Said  of  uniting  these  characters  ?— Said  of  the  grave  ?— Of  the 
warm  ? — AVhat  forms  -what  the  French  call  Onetion  7 

What  does  a  sermon  require  ? — What  is  meant  by  this  ? — It  mast 
not  be  what  ?— What  must  not  be  understood  ?— What  does  unity 
:nly  require  ?— Example. 


156 


ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT. 


offend  against  unity,  and  leave  a  very  confused  im- 
pression on  the  minds  of  his  hearers. 

Sermons  are  always  more  striking,  and  generally 
more  useful,  the  more  precise  and  particular  the 
subject  of  them  is.  Unity  can  never  be  so  perfect 
in  a  general,  as  in  a  particular  subject.  General 
subjects,  indeed,  such  as  the  excellency  or  the  plea 
sures  of  religion,  are  often  chosen  by  young  preach 
ers,  as  the  most  showy,  and  the  easiest  to  be  handled  • 
but  these  subjects  produce  not  the  high  effects  of 
preaching.  Attention  is  much  more  commanded,  by 
taking  some  particular  view  of  a  great  subject,  and 
employing  on  that  the  whole  force  of  argument  and 
eloquence.  To  recommend  some  one  virtue,  or  to 
inveigh  against  a  particular  vice,  affords  a  subject 
not  deficient  in  unity  or  precision.  But,  if  that  vir- 
tue or  vice  be  considered  as  assuming  a  particular 
aspect  in  certain  situations  in  life,  the  subject  be- 
comes still  more  interesting.  The  execution  is  more 
difficult,  but  the  merit  and  the  effect  are  higher. 

A  preacher  should  be  cautious  not  to  exhaust  his 
subject;  since  nothing  is  more  opposite  to  persuasion 
than  unnecessary  and  tedious  fulness.  There  are 
always  some  things  which  he  may  suppose  to  be 
known,  and  some  which  require  only  brief  attention. 
If  he  endeavour  to  omit  nothing  which  his  subject 
suggests,  he  must  unavoidably  encumber  it  and 
diminish  its  force. 

To  render  his  instructions  interesting  to  his  hearers 
should  be  the  grand  object  of  every  preacher.  He 


When  are  sermons  most  striking  and  useful  ?— Said  of  unity  ?— 
Of  general  subjects  ? — Why  chosen  by  young  preachers  ? — What  do 
these  subjects  not  produce  ? — By  what  is  the  attention  much  more 
eommanded  ? 

Of  what  should  a  preacher  be  cautious  ? — For  what  reason  ? — 
What  may  he  suppose? — Said  of  omitting  nothing  which  his  subject 
BUggests? 

What  should  be  the  grand  object  of  every  preacher  ? — What 
•hould  he  avoid  ? — How  should  a  discovurse  be  carried  on  ? 


ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT. 


157 


should  bring  home  to  their  hearts  the  truths  which  he 
inculcates ;  and  make  each  suppose  himself  particu- 
larly addressed.  He  should  avoid  all  intricate  rea- 
sonings ;  avoid  expressing  himself  in  general,  specu- 
lative propositions  ;  or  laying  down  practical  truths  in 
an  abstract,  metaphysical  manner.  A  discourse  ought 
to  be  carried  on  in  the  strain  of  direct  address  to  the 
audience ;  not  in  the  strain  of  one  writing  an  essay, 
but  of  one  speaking  to  a  multitude,  and  stud}nng-  to 
connect  what  is  called  application,  or  what  imme- 
diately refers  to  practice,  with  the  doctrinal  parts  of 
the  sermon. 

It  is  always  highly  advantageous  to  keep  in  view 
the  different  ages,  characters,  and  conditions  of  men, 
and  to  accommodate  directions  and  exhortations  to 
each  of  these  different  classes.  Whenever  you  ad- 
vance what  touches  a  man's  character,  or  is  applicable 
to  his  circumstances,  you  are  sure  of  his  attention.  No 
study  is  more  necessary  for  a  preacher  than  the  study 
of  human  life  and  of  the  human  heart.  To  discover 
a  man  to  himself  in  a  light  in  which  he  never  saw  his 
character  before,  produces  a  wonderful  effect.  Those 
sermons,  though  the  most  difficult  in  composition,  are 
not  only  the  most  beautiful,  but  also  the  most  useful, 
which  are  founded  on  the  illustration  of  some  pecuhar 
character,  or  remarkable  piece  of  history,  in  the  sacred 
writings ;  by  pursuing  which  we  may  trace,  and  lay 
open,  some  of  the  most  secret  windings  of  the  human 
heart.  Other  topics  of  preaching  are  become  trite ; 
but  this  is  an  extensive  field  which  hitherto  has  been 
little  explored,  and  possesses  all  the  advantages  of 
being  curious,  new,  and  highly  useful.  Bishop  Butler's 
sermon  on  the  character  of  Balaam  is  an  example  of 
this  kind  of  preaching. 


Wliat  is  always  highly  advantageous  ?— When  are  you  sure  of  a 
man's  attention  ?— What  study  is  necessary  for  a  preacher? — What 
sermons  are  the  most  beautiful  and  useful  ?— What  is  an  example  of 
this  kiad  of  preaching  1 

^  14 


158  ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT. 

Fashion,  which  operates  so  extensively  on  human 
manners,  has  given  to  preaching,  at  different  times,  a 
change  of  character.  This,  however,  is  a  torrent 
which  swells  to-day  and  subsides  to-mon'ow.  Some- 
times poetical  preaching  is  fashionable;  sometimes 
philosophical.  At  one  time,  it  must  be  all  pathetic; 
at  another,  all  argumentative ;  as  some  celebrated 
preacher  has  set  the  example.  Each  of  these  modes 
is  very  defective  ;  and  he  who  conforms  himself  to  it 
will  both  confine  and  corrupt  his  genius.  Truth  and 
good  sense  are  the  sole  basis  on  which  he  can  build 
with  safety.  Mode  and  humour  are  feeble  and  un- 
steady. No  example  should  be  servilely  imitated. 
From  various  examples  the  preacher  may  collect 
materials  for  improvement ;  but  servility  of  imitation 
extinguishes  all  genius,  or  rather  proves  entire  want 
of  it. 


What  has  fashion  given  to  preaching? — Said  of  each  of  these 
modes  ? — Of  him  who  confines  himself  to  it  ? — What  is  the  basia 
upon  which  he  can  build  with  safety  ?— Said  of  mode  and  humour  ? 
— Said  of  serTility  of  imitation  ? 


[159] 


LECTURE  XXVI. 

CONDUCT  OF  A  DISCOURSE  IN  ALL  ITS  PARTS.— 
INTRODUCTION,  DIVISION,  NARRATION,  AND 
EXPLICATION. 

Hayi^'G  already  considered  wliat  is  peculiar  to  each 
of  the  three  great  fields  of  public  speaking,  popular 
assemblies,  the  bar,  and  the  pulpit ;  we  shall  now 
treat  of  what  is  common  to  them  all,  and  explain  the 
conduct  of  a  discoui-se  or  oration  in  general. 

The  parts  which  compose  a  regular  oration  are  these 
six ;  the  exordium  or  introduction,  the  state  or  the 
dinsion  of  the  subject,  narration  or  explication,  the 
reasoning  or  arguments,  the  pathetic  part,  and  the 
conclusion.  It  is  not  necessary  that  each  of  these 
enter  into  every  public  discourse,  nor  that  they  always 
enter  in  this  order.  There  are  many  excellent  dis- 
courses in  which  some  of  these  parts  are  omitted. 
But  as  they  are  the  constituent  parts  of  a  regular 
oration,  and  as  in  every  discourse  some  of  them  must 
occur,  it  is  agreeable  to  our  present  piu'pose  to  ex- 
amine each  of  them  distinctly. 

The  design  of  the  introduction  is  to  conciliate  the 
good  will  of  the  hearers,  to  excite  their  attention,  and 
to  render  them  open  to  pereuasion.  When  the  speaker 
is  pre\aoiisly  secure  of  the  good  \vill,  attention,  and 
docility  of  his  audience,  a  formal  introduction  may  be 
omitted.  Respect  for  his  hearei^s  wiU,  in  that  case, 
require  only  a  short  exordium,  to  prepare  them  for 
the  other  parts  of  his  discourse. 


Wliat  are  the  subjects  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  has  already  been  considered  ? — What  are  we  now  to  treat  of? 
What  are  the  six  parts  which  compose  a  regular  oration  ? — What 
is  said  of  these  ? 

What  is  the  design  of  the  introduction? — When  may  a  formPj 
introduction  be  omitted  ? — What  vrill  a  respect  for  his  hearers  only 
require  ? 


160 


CONDUCT  OF  A  DISCOURSE. 


The  introduction  is  a  part  of  a  discourse,  whicli 
requires  no  small  care.  It  is  always  important  to 
begin  well ;  to  make  a  favourable  impression  at  first 
setting  out,  when  the  minds  of  the  hearers,  as  yet 
vacant  and  free,  are  more  easily  prejudiced  in  favour 
of  the  speaker.  We  must  add,  also,  that  a  good  in-, 
troduction  is  frequently  found  to  be  extremely  difficult. 
Few  parts  of  a  discourse  give  more  trouble  to  the 
composer,  or  require  more  delicacy  in  the  execution. 

An  introduction  should  be  easy  and  natural.  It 
should  always  be  suggested  by  the  subject.  The 
writer  should  not  plan  it,  before  he  has  meditated  in 
his  own  mind  the  substance  of  his  discourse.  By 
.taking  the  opposite  course,  and  composing  in  the  first 
place  an  introduction,  the  writer  will  often  find  that 
he  is  either  led  to  lay  hold  of  some  commonplace 
topic,  or  that,  instead  of  the  introduction  being  ac- 
commodated to  the  discourse,  he  is  under  the  necessity 
of  accommodating  the  discourse  to  the  introduction. 

In  this  part  of  a  discourse,  correctness  of  expression 
should  be  carefully  studied.  This  is  peculiarly  requi- 
site, on  account  of  the  situation  of  the  hearers.  At 
the  beginning,  they  are  more  disposed  to  criticise  than 
at  any  other  period  ;  they  are  then  unoccupied  by  the 
subject  and  the  arguments  ;  their  attention  is  entirely 
directed  to  the  speaker's  style  and  manner.  Care, 
therefore,  is  requisite  to  prepossess  them  in  his  favour ; 
though  too  much  art  must  be  cautiously  avoided,  since 
it  will  then  be  more  easily  detected,  and  will  derogate 
from  that  persuasion,  which  the  other  parts  of  the  dis-' 
course  are  intended  to  produce. 

Modesty  is  also  an  indispensable  characteristic  of 


What  does  the  introduction  require  ?— What  is  always  important  T 
-What  is  farther  said  of  a  good  introduction  ? 

How  should  an  introduction  be?— When  should  the  writer  not 
plan  it  ? — Said  of  taking  the  opposite  course  ? 

In  this  part  of  a  discourse,  what  should  be  carefully  studied  ?— 
Why  is  this  requisite  ? — What  must  be  cautiously  avoidt-d  ?— Why  ' 

What  is  an  indispensable  characteristic  of  a  good  introduction  ?— 


INTRODUCTION. 


161 


a  good  introduction.  If  the  speaker  begin  with  an  an 
of  arrogance  and  ostentation,  the  self-love  and  pride 
of  his  hearers  will  be  presently  awakened,  and  fohow 
him  with  a  very  suspicions  eye  through  the  rest  of  his 
discourse.  His  modesty  should  appear,  not  only  in 
his  expression,  but  in  his  whole  manner  ;  in  his  looks, 
in  his  gestures,  and  in  the  tone  of  his  voice.  Every 
audience  is  pleased  with  those  marks  of  respect  and 
awe  which  are  paid  by  the  speaker.  The  modesty, 
however,  of  an  introduction  should  betray  nothing 
mean  or  abject.  Together  with  modesty  and  defer- 
ence to  his  hearers,  the  orator  should  show  a  certain 
sense  of  dignity,  arising  from,  persuasion  of  the  justice 
or  importance  of  his  subject. 

Particular  cases  excepted,  the  orator  should  not  put 
forth  all  his  strength  at  the  begiLiining  ;  but  it  should 
'nse  and  grow  upon  his  hearers,  as  his  discourse  ad- 
vances. The  introduction  is  seldom  the  place  for 
vehemence  and  passion.  The  audience  must  be  gTa- 
dually  prepared,  before  the  speaker  venture  on  strong 
and  passionate  sentiments.  Yet  when  the  subject  is 
such  that  the  very  mention  of  it  naturally  awakens 
some  passionate  emotion,  or  wdien  the  unexpected 
presence  of  some  person  or  object  in  a  popular  assem- 
bly inflames  the  speaker,  either  of  these  will  justify 
an  abrupt  and  vehement  exordium.  Thus,  the  ap- 
pearance of  Catiline  in  the  senate  renders  the  violent 
opening  of  Cicero's  first  oration  against  him  very 
natural  and  proper.  "  Quousque  tandem,  Catilina, 
abutere  patientia  nostra  ?"  Bishop  Atterbury,  preach- 
ing from  this  text,  "Blessed  is  he,  whosoever  shall 
not  be  offended  in  me,"  ventures  on  this  bold  exor- 


What  if  the  spea^ker  begin  with  an  air  of  arrogance  ? — In  what 
Bhould  his  modesty  appear  ? — Every  audience  is  pleased  with 
what  ?— What  should  not  the  modesty  of  an  introduction  betray  ? 
— Together  with  modesty  and  deference,  Avhat  should  an  orator 
ehow  ? 

What  is  said  of  an  orator  putting  forth  all  his  strength  at  the  be- 
ginning ? — What  will  justify  an  abrupt  and  vehement  exordium  ? — 

14* 


162 


CONDUCT  OF  A  DISCOURSE. 


dium,  — "  And  can  any  man  then  be  offended  in  thee, 
blessed  Jesus  ?"  which  address  to  onr  Saviour  he  con- 
tinues, till  he  enters  on  the  division  of  his  subject. 
But  such  introductions  should  be  attempted  by  very 
few,  since  they  promise  so  much  vehemence  and  ar- 
dour through  the  rest  of  the  discourse,  that  it  is  ex 
tremely  difficult  to  satisfy  the  expectation  of  the  hear 
ers.  An  introduction  should  not  anticipate  any  mate- 
rial part  of  the  subject.  When  topics  or  arguments 
which  are  afterward  to  be  enlarged  upon  are  hinted  at, 
and  in  part  exhibited  in  the  introduction,  they  lose, 
upon  their  second  appearance,  the  gi'ace  of  novelty. 
The  impression  intended  to  be  made  by  any  capital 
thought  is  always  made  with  greatest  advantage 
when  it  is  made  entire,  and  in  its  proper  place. 

An  introduction  should  be  proportioned  in  its  length 
and  kind  to  the  discourse  which  follows  it.  In  length, 
as  nothing  can  be  more  absurd  than  to  erect  a  large 
portico  before  a  small  building  ;  and  in  kind,  as  it  is 
no  less  absurd  to  load  with  superb  ornaments  the 
portico  of  a  plain  dwelling-house,  or  to  make  the  ap- 
proach to  a  monument  as  gay  as  that  to  an  arbour. 

After  the  introduction,  the  proposition  or  enuncia- 
tion of  the  subject  commonly  succeeds ;  concerning 
which  we  shall  only  observe,  that  it  should  be  clear 
and  distinct,  and  expressed  without  affectation,  in  the 
most  concise  and  simple  manner.  To  this  generally 
succeeds  the  division,  or  laying  down  the  method  of 
the  discourse ;  in  the  management  of  which,  the  fol 
lowing  rules  should  be  carefully  observed. 

First,  The  parts  into  which  the  subject  is  divided 
must  be  really  distinct  from  each  other.    It  were  an 


Examples. — Said  of  such  introductions  ? — Why  should  not  an  intro- 
duction anticipate  any  material  part  of  the  subject  ? 

What  is  said  of  an  introduction  with  respect  to  length  and  kind  ? 

After  the  introduction,  what  commonly  succeeds  ? — What  should 
it  be  ? — What  generally  succeeds  to  this  ? 

W  hat  is  the  first  rule  for  the  management  of  this  ? — What  were 
an  absurd  division  ? 


DR-ISION. 


1C3 


.ibsiird  division,  for  example,  if  a  speaker  should  pro- 
pose to  explain,  first  the  advantages  of  virtue,  and  next 
those  of  justice  or  temperance  ;  because  the  first  head 
plainly  comprehends  the  second,  as  a  genus  does  the 
species.  Such  a  method  of  proceeding  involves  the 
subject  in  confusion. 

Secondly,  We  must  be  careful  always  to  follow  the 
order  of,  nature  ;  beginning  with  the  most  simple 
points^  with  such  as  are  most  easily  understood,  and 
necessary  to  be  first  discussed  ;  and  proceeding  to 
those  which  are  built  upon  the  former,  and  suppose 
them  to  be  known.  The  subject  must  be  divided, 
into  those  parts,  into  which  it  is  most  easily  and 
naturally  resolved. 

Thirdly,  The  members  of  a  di^dsion  ought  to  ex- 
haust the  subject ;  otherwise,  the  division  is  incom- 
plete ;  the  subject  is  exhibited  by  pieces  only,  without 
displaying  the  whole. 

Fourthly,  Let  conciseness  and  precision  be  pecu- 
liarly studied.  A  division  always  appears  to  most 
advantage,  when  the  several  heads  are  expressed  in 
the  clearest,  most  forcible,  and  fewest  words  possible. 
This  never  fails  to  strike  the  hearer  agreeably  :  and 
contributes  also  to  make  the  divisions  more  easily  re- 
membered. 

Fifthly,  Unnecessary  multiplication  of  heads  should 
be  cautiously  avoided.  To  di-side  a  subject  into  many 
minute  parts,  by  endless  didsions  and  subch\'isions, 
produces  a  bad  effect  in  speaking.  In  a  logical  trea- 
tise, this  may  be  proper ;  but  it  renders  an  oration, 
hard  and  diy,  and  unnecessarily  fatigues  the  memory. 
A  sermon  may  admit  from  three  to  five  or  six  heads, 
including  subdivisions  ;  seldom  are  more  allowable. 

The  next  constituent  part  of  a  discourse  is  narration 


What  is  the  second  1 
"What  is  the  third  1 
What  is  the  fourth  1 

What  is  the  fifth  ?— How  many  heads  may  a  sermon  admit  J 


164 


CONDUCT  OF  A  DISCOURSE. 


or  explication.  These  two  are  joined  together,  be- 
cause they  fall  nearly  under  the  same  rules,  and 
because  they  generally  answer  the  same  purpose ; 
serving  to  illustrate  the  cause,  or  the  subject,  of 
which  one  treats,  before  proceeding  "to  argue  on  one 
side  or  the  other,  or  attempting  to  interest  the  passions 
of  the  hearers. 

To  be  clear  and  distinct,  to  be  probable,  and  to  be 
concise,  are  the  qualities  which  critics  chiefly  require 
in  narration.    Distinctness  is  requisite  to  the  whole  j 
of  the  discourse,  but  belongs  especially  to  narration,  ' 
which  ought  to  throw  light  on  all  that  follows.   At  the 
bar,  an  act,  or  a  single  circumstance,  left  in  obscurity, 
or  misunderstood  by  the  judge,  may  destroy  the  effect  j 
of  all  the  argument  and  reasoning  which  the  pleader  j 
employs.     If  his  narration  be  improbable,  it  will  be 
disregarded  ;  if  it  be  tedious  and  diffuse,  it  will  fatigue 
and  be  forgotten.    To  render  narration  distinct,  par- 
ticular attention  is  requisite  in  ascertaining  clearly  the 
names,  dates,  places,  and  every  other  important  cir- 
cumstance of  the  facts  recounted.     In  order  to  be 
probable  in  narration,  it  is  necessary  to  exhibit  the  . 
characters  of  the  persons  of  whom  we  speak,  and  to 
show  that  their  actions  proceeded  from  such  motives 
as  are  natural  and  likely  to  gain  belief.    To  be  as  j 
concise  as  the  subject  will  admit,  all  superfluous  cir-  ' 
cumstances  must  be  rejected  ;  by  which  the  narration 
will  be  rendered  more  forcible  and  more  clear. 

In  sermons,  explication  of  the  subject  to  be  dis- 
coursed on  occupies  the  place  of  narration  at  the  bar  ' 
and  is  to  be  conducted  in  a  similar  manner.    It  must 


What  is  the  next  constituent  part  of  a  discourse  ?— Why  are  these 
two  joined  together  ? 

What  are  the  qualities  which  critics  chiefly  require  in  narration  ? 
— Said  of  distinctness  ?— Its  importance  at  the  bar  ? — Wliat  if  his 
narration  be  improbable  ? — What  if  it  be  tedious  and  diffuse  ? — To 
render  narration  distinct,  what  is  requisite? — What  is  necessary  in 
order  to  be  probable  in  narration  ? — What  to  be  concise  I 

Said  of  ezpiication  in  sermons  ? — IIow  must  it  be  ? — What  iB 


THE  ARGUMENTATIVE  PART. 


165 


be  concise,  clear,  and  distinct ;  in  a  style  correct  and 
elegant,  ratlier  than  higbly  adorned.  To  explain  the 
doctrine  of  the  text  with  propriety ;  to  give  a  full  and 
clear  account  of  the  nature  of  that  virtue  or  duty  which 
forms  the  subject  of  discourse,  is  properly  the  didactic 
part  of  preaching ;  on  the  right  execution  of  which 
much  depends.  In  order  to  succeed,  the  preacher 
must  meditate  profoundly  on  the  subject;  so  as  to 
place  it  in  a  clear  and  striking  point  of  view.  He 
must  consider  what  light  it  may  derive  from  other 
passages  of  scripture  ;  whether  it  be  a  subject  nearly 
allied  to  some  other,  from  which  it  ought  to  be  distin- 
guished ;  whether  it  can  be  advantageously  illustrated 
by  comparing  or  opposing  it  to  some  other  thing ;  by 
searching  into  causes,  or  tracing  eftects  ;  by  pointing 
out  examples,  or  appealing  to  the  hearts  of  the  hearers, 
that  thus  a  precise  and  circumstantial  view  may  be 
afforded  of  the  doctrine  inculcated.  By  distinct  and 
apt  illustrations  of  the  known  truths  of  religion,  a 
preacher  may  both  display  great  merit  as  a  composer, 
and,  what  is  infinitely  more  valuable,  render  his 
discourses  weighty,  instructive,  and  useful. 


LECTURE  XXVII. 

THE  ARGUMENTATIVE  PAET  OF  A  DISCOURSE, 
THE  PATHETIC  PART,  AND  THE  PERORATION. 

As  the  great  end  for  which  men  speak  on  any  serious 
occasion  is  to  convince  their  hearers  that  something 


properly  the  didactic  part  of  preaching  ? — In  order  to  succeed,  what 
must  the  preacher  do  ?— Said  of  distinct  and  apt  illustrations  ? 

What  are  the  subjects  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  is  said  of  the  great  end  for  which  men  speak  ? — Said  oj 
reason  and  argument  ? 


166 


CONDUCT  OF  A  DISCOURSE. 


is  true,  or  riglit,  or  good,  and  tlius  to  influence  tlieir 
practice,  reason  and  argument  must  constitute  the 
foundation  of  all  manly  and  persuasive  eloquence. 

With  regard  to  arguments,  three  things  are  requi- 
site. First,  invention  of  them  ;  secondly,  proper  dis- 
position and  arrangement  of  them ;  and  thirdly,  ex- 
pressing them  in  the  most  forcible  manner.  Inven- 
tion is  undoubtedly  the  most  material,  and  the  basis 
"of  the  rest.  But  in  this,  art  can  afford  only  small 
assistance.  It  can  aid  a  speaker,  however,  in  arrang- 
ing and  expressing  those  arguments  which  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  subject  has  discovered. 

Supposing  the  arguments  properly  chosen,  we  must 
avoid  blending  those  together  that  are  of  a  separate 
nature.  All  arguments  whatever  are  intended  to 
prove  one  of  these  three  things ;  that  something  is 
true,  that  it  is  right  or  fit,  or  that  it  is  profitable  and 
good.  Truth,  duty,  and  interest  are  the  three  great 
subjects  of  discussion  among  men.  But  the  argu- 
ments employed  upon  either  of  them  are  generally 
distinct ;  and  he  who  blends  them  all  under  one  topic, 
which  he  calls  his  argument,  as  in  sermons  is  too 
frequently  done,  will  render  his  reasoning  indistinct 
and  inelegant. 

With  respect  to  the  different  degrees  of  strength  in 
arguments,  the  common  rule  isj  to_adyance  in  the  way 
of  climax  from  the  weakest  to  the  most  forcible. 
This  method  is  recommended,  when  the  speaker  is 
convinced  that  his  cause  is  clear  and  easy  to  be  proved. 
But  this  rule  must  not  be  universally  observed.    If  he 


With  regard  to  arguments,  how  many  things  are  requisite  ? — What 
is  the  first  ? — The  second  ?— The  third  ?— Said  of  invention  ? 

Supposing  the  arguments  properly  chosen,  what  must  we  avoid  ? — 
What  are  all  arguments  intended  to  prove  ? — AVhat  are  the  three 
great  subjects  of  discussion  among  men  ? — What  is  said  of  blending 
them  all  ixnder  one  topic  ? 

With  regard  to  the  different  degrees  of  strength  in  arguments, 
what  is  the  common  rule?— When  is  this  method  recommended? 
-Farther  said  of  this  rule  ? — When  is  it  proper  to  place  an  argu* 


THE  ARGUMENTATIVE  PART. 


167 


distrust  his  cause,  and  have  but  one  mateiial  argu- 
ment, it  is  often  proper  to  place  this  argument  in  the 
front ;  to  prejudice  his  hearers  early  in  his  favour, 
and  thus  dispose  them  to  pay  attention  to  the  weaker 
reasons  which  he  may  afterward  introduce.  When 
amid  a  variety  of  arguments  there  is  one  or  two  more 
feeble  than  the  rest,  though  proper  to  be  used,  Cicero 
ad\dses  to  place  them  in  the  middle,  as  a  situation 
less  conspicuous  than  either  the  beginning  or  end  of 
the  train  of  reasoning. 

When  ai'guments  are  strong  and  satisfactory,  the 
more  they  are  separated  the  better.  Each  can  then 
bear  to  be  introduced  alone,  placed  m  its  full  light, 
amplified  and  contemplated.  But  when  they  are  of 
a  doubtful  or  presmnptive  nature,  it  is  safer  to  crowd 
them  together,  to  form  them  into  a  phalanx,  that, 
though  individually  weak,  they  may  mutually  support 
each  other. 

Arguments  should  never  be  extended  too  far,  nor 
multiplied  too  much.  This  serves  rather  to  render 
a  cause  suspicious,  than  to  increase  its  strength.  A 
needless  multiphcity  of  arguments  burdens  the  memory, 
and  diminishes  the  weight  of  that  conviction,  which 
a  few  well  chosen  arguments  produce.  To  expand 
them  also  beyond  the  bounds  of  reasonable  illustra- 
tion is  always  enfeebhng.  When  a  speaker  endea- 
vours to  expose  a  favourable  argument  in  every  light 
possible,  fatigued  by  the  effort,  he  loses  the  spirit 
with  which  he  set  out;  and  ends  with  feebleness, 
what  he  began  with  force.  • 


ment  in  the  front,  and  for  what  reason  ? — AVhen  amid  a  variety  of 
arguments  there  is  one  or  two  more  feeble  than  the  rest,  what  does 
Cicero  advise  ? 

What  should  be  done  when  arguments  are  strong  and  satis- 
factory ? — What  when  they  are  of  a  doubtful  or  presumptive  na- 
ture? 

What  is  farther  said  of  arguments? — What  does  this  serve  to 
do  ? — What  is  the  effect  of  %  needless  multiplicity  of  arguments  ?— 
Said  of  expanding  them  ? 


168 


CONDUCT  OF  A  DISCOURSE. 


Having  attended  thus  far  to  tlie  proper  arrange- 
/ment  of  arguments,  we  proceed  to  another  essential 
*!  part  of  a  discourse,  the  pathetic,  in  which,  if  any 
/where,  eloquence  reigns,  and  exerts  its  power.  On 
'  this  head,  the  following  directions  appear  useful. 

Consider  carefully  whether  the  subject  admits  the 
pathetic,  and  renders  it  proper ;  and,  if  it  do,  what 
part  of  the  discourse  is  most  fit  for  it.  To  determine 
these  points  belongs  to  good  sense.  Many  subjects 
admit  not  the  pathetic ;  and  even  in  those  that  are 
susceptible  of  it,  an  attempt  to  excite  the  passions  in 
a  wrong  place  may  expose  an  orator  to  ridicule.  It 
may  in  general  be  observed,  that  if  we  expect  any 
emotion  which  we- raise  to  have  a  lasting  effect,  we 
must  secure  in  our  favour  the  understanding  and  judg- 
ment. The  hearers  must  be  satisfied  that  there  are 
sufficient  grounds  for  their  engaging  in  the  cause  with 
zeal  and  ardour.  When  argument  and  reasoning 
have  produced  their  full  effect,  the  pathetic  is  admit- 
ted with  the  greatest  force  and  propriety. 

A  speaker  should  cautiously  avoid  giving  his  hearers 
warning  that  he  intends  to  excite  their  passions.  Every 
thing  of  this  kind  chills  their  sensibility.  There  is 
also  a  great  difference  between  telling  the  hearers  that 
they  ought  to  be  moved,  and  actually  moving  them. 
To  every  emotion  or  passion  nature  has  adapted  cer- 
tain corresponding  objects  ;  and  without  setting  these 
before  the  mind,  it  is  impossible  for  an  orator  to  excite 
that  emotion.  We  are  warmed  with  gratitude,  we 
are  touched  with  compassion,  not  when  a  speaker 
shows  us  that  these  are  noble  dispositions,  and  that  it 


Having  thus  attended  to  the  proper  arrangement  of  arguments,  to 
what  do  we  now  proceed  ? 

What  should  be  carefully  considered  ?— What  may  in  general  be 
observed  ? — Of  what  must  the  hearers  be  satisfied  ? — When  is  the 
pathetic  admitted  ? 

What  should  a  speaker  cautiously  avoid  ? — What  is  the  efifect  of 
this  ?— In  what  is  There  a  great  difference  ? — To  every  emotion  or 
passion  what  has  nature  done  ?— Said  of  setting  these  before  the 


THE  PERORATION. 


1G9 


is  our  duty  to  feel  tliem ;  nor  wlien  lie  exclaims  against 
us  for  our  indifference  and  coldness.  Hitherto  he  has 
addressed  only  our  reason  or  conscience.  He  must 
describe  the  kindness  and  tenderness  of  our  friend  ; 
he  must  exhibit  the  distress  suffered  by  the  person  for 
whom  he  would  interest  us.  Then,  and  not  before, 
our  hearts  begin  to  be  touched ;  our  gi-atitude,  our 
compassion  begins  to  flow.  The  basis,  therefore,  of 
all  successful  execution  in  pathetic  oratory  is  to  paint 
the  object  of  that  passion  which  we  desire  to  raise  in 
the  most  natural  and  striking  manner ;  to  describe  it 
with  such  circumstances  as  are  likely  to  awaken  it  in 
the  minds  of  others. 

To  succeed  in  the  pathetic,  it  is  necessaiy  to  attend 
to  the  proper  language  of  the  passions.  This,  if  we 
consult  nature,  we  shall  ever  find  is  unaffected  and 
simple.  It  may  be  animated  by  bold  and  strong 
figures,  but  it  will  have  no  ornament,  no  finery.  There 
is  a  great  difference  between  painting  to  the  imagina- 
tion and  to  the  heart.  The  one  may  be  done  with 
deliberation  and  coolness  ;  the  other  must  always  be 
rapid  and  ardent.  In  the  former,  art  and  labour  may 
be  suffered  to  appear  ;  in  the  latter,  no  proper  effect 
can  be  produced,  unless  it  be  the  work  of  nature  only. 
Hence,  all  digressions  should  be  avoided  which  may 
interrupt  or  turn  aside  the  swell  of  passion.  Hence, 
comparisons  are  always  dangerous,  and  commonly 
quite  improper  in  the  midst  of  the  pathetic.  It  is  also 
to  be  observed,  that  violent  emotions  cannot  be  lasting. 
The  pathetic,  therefore,  should  not  be  prolonged  too 
much.    Due  regard  should  always  be  preserved  to 


mind  ?— What  must  he  do  ? — What  is  the  effect  ? — What  is  the  basis, 
therefore,  of  successful  execution  in  pathetic  oratory  ? 

To  succeed  in  the  pathetic,  what  is  necessary  ? — This,  if  we  con- 
sult nature,  we  shall  ever  find  what  ? — It  may  be  what  ? — There  is  a 
great  difference  between  what  ? — Said  of  the  one  ? — The  other  ? — Of 
the  former  ? — The  latter  ?— Hence,  what  should  be  avoided  ? — Hence, 
what  are  dangerous  ? — What  is  also  to  be  observed  ? — The  pathetic, 
therefore,  should  not  be  what  ? — Said  of  attempting  to  carry  the 
hearers  farther  in  passion  than  they  wiU  foUow  ? 


170 


CONDUCT  OF  A  DISCOURSE. 


what  tlie  hearers  will  bear ;  for  he  who  attempts  to 
carry  them  farther  in  passion  than  they  will  follow 
him,  frustrates  his  purpose.  By  endeavouring  to  warm 
them  too  much,  he  takes  the  surest  method  of  freezing 
them  completely. 

Concerning  the  peroration  or  conclusion  of  a  dis 
course,  a  few  words  will  be  sufficient.  Sometimes, 
the  whole  pathetic  part  comes  in  most  properly  at  the 
conclusion.  Sometimes,  when  the  discourse  has  been 
altogether  argumentative,  it  is  proper  to  conclude  with 
summing  up  the  arguments,  placing  them  in  one  view, 
and  leaving  the  impression  of  them  full  and  strong  on 
the  minds  of  the  hearers.  For  the  great  rule  of  a 
conclusion,  and  what  nature  obviously  suggests,  is, 
place  that  last  on  Avhich  you  choose  to  rest  the  strength 
of  your  cause. 

In  every  kind  of  public  speaking,  it  is  important  to 
hit  the  precise  time  of  concluding  ;  to  bring  the  dis- 
course just  to  a  point ;  neither  ending  abruptly  and 
unexpectedly,  nor  disappointing  the  expectation  of  the 
hearers,  when  they  look  for  the  end  of  the  discourse. 

The  speaker  should  always  close  with  dignity  and 
spirit,  that  the  minds  of  the  hearers  may  be  left  warm, 
and  that  they  may  depart  with  a  favom-able  impres- 
sion of  the  subject  and  of  himself. 


Where  does  the  pathetic  part  come  in  most  properly  ?— When  the 
iiscoiirse  has  heen  altogether  argumentative,  how  is  it  proper  to  con- 
flude  ? — What  is  the  great  rule  of  a  conclusion  ? 

In  every  kind  of  public  speaking,  what  is  important  ? 

How  should  the  speaker  always  close  ? 


[in] 


LECTURE  XXVin. 

PRONUNCIATION  OR  DELIVER?. 

The  gi-eat  objects  to  wliicli  every  public  speake) 
should  direct  his  attention  in  forming  his  delivery  are, 
first,  to  speak  so  as  to  be  fully  and  easily  undei-stood 
by  his  hearei-s  ;  and  next,  to  express  himself  with  such 
gTace  and  energy  as  to  please  and  to  move  them. 

To  be  fully  and  easily  understood,  the  chief  requi- 
sites are,  a  due  degi-ee  of  loudness  of  voice,  distinct- 
ness, sloT\Tiess,  and  propriety  of  pronunciation. 

To  be  heard  is  undoubtedly  the  first  requisite.  The 
speaker  must  endeavour  to  fill  with  his  voice  the 
space  occupied  by  the  assembly.  Though  this  power 
of  voice  is  in  a  gi-eat  measure  a  natural  talent,  it  may 
receive  considerable .  assistance  fi'om  art.  Much  de- 
pends on  the  proper  pitch  and  management  of  the 
voice.  Every  man  has  three  pitches  in  his  voice  ;  the 
high,  the  middle,  and  the  low.  The  high  is  used  ia 
calhng  aloud  to  some  one  at  a  distance  ;  the  low  ap- 
proaches to  a  whisper ;  the  middle  is  that  which  is 
employed  in  common  convei-sation,  and  which  should 
generally  be  used  in  pubhc  speaking.  For  it  is  a  great 
error  to  suppose,  that  the  highest  pitch  of  the  voice  is 
requisite,  to  be  well  heard  by  a  gTeat  assembly.  This 
is  confounding  two  things  materially .  diS"erent,  loud- 


What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  are  the  great  objects  to  which  every  public  speaker  should 
direct  his  attention  ? 

To  be  fully  and  easily  understood,  what  are  the  chief  requi- 
Bites  ? 

What  is  the  first  requisite  ? — What  must  the  speaker  endeavour 
to  do  ?— Said  of  this  power  of  the  voice  ? — Of  its  pitch  and  manage- 
ment ?— How  many  pitches  has  every  man  in  hi?  voice  ? — What 
are  they  ?— Said  of  the  high  ?— The  low  ?— The  middle  ?— What  ia 
a  great  error  ?— What  two  things  is  this  confounding  ?— Said  of  the 


1*72 


PRONUNCIATION  OR  DELIVERY. 


ness  or  strength  of  sound  Avitli  the  key  or  note  on  which 
we  speak.  The  voice  may  be  rendered  louder  without 
altering  the  key  ;  and  the  speaker  will  always  be  able 
to  give  most  body,  most  persevering  force  of  sound, 
to  that  pitch  of  voice  to  which  in  conversation  he  is 
accustomed.  Whereas,  if  he  begin  on  the  highes 
key,  he  wih  fatigue  himself  and  speak  with  pain 
and  whenever  a  man  speaks  with  pain  to  himself,  h( 
is  al  ways  heard  with  pain  by  his  audience.  Give  tht 
voice,  therefore,  full  strength  and  swell  of  sound,  but 
always  pitch  it  on  your  ordinary  speaking  key ;  a 
greater  quantity  of  voice  should  never  be  uttered,  than 
can  be  afforded  without  pain,  and  without  any  exti-a- 
ordinary  effort.  To  be  well  heard,  it  is  useful  for  a 
speaker  to  fix  his  eye  on  some  of  the  most  distant 
persons  in  the  assembly,  and  to  consider  himself  as 
speaking  to  them.  We  naturally  and  mechanically 
utter  out  words  with  such  strength,  as  to  be  heard  by 
one  to  whom  we  address  ourselves,  provided  he  be 
within  the  reach  of  our  voice.  This  is  the  case  in 
public  speaking,  as  well  as  in  common  conversation. 
But  it  must  be  remembered,  that  speaking  too  loudly 
is  pecuharly  offensive.  The  ear  is  wounded,  when 
the  voice  comes  upon  it  in  rumbhng,  indistinct  mass- 
es ;  besides,  it  appears  as  if  assent  were  demanded  by 
mere  vehemence  and  force  of  sound. 

To  being  well  heard,  and  clearly  understood,  dis 
tinctness  of  articulation  is  more  conducive,  perhaps 
than  mere  loudness  of  sound.  The  quantity  of  sound 
requisite  to  fill  even  a  large  space  is  less  than  is  com 
monly  supposed  ;  with  distinct  articulation,  a  man  of 
a  weak  voice  will  make  it  extend  farther  tfvan  the 


advantages  of  pitching  the  voice  in  the  conversation  key  ? — Said  of 
beginning  on  the  highest  key  ? — What  should  we  give  the  voice, 
therefore? — To  be  well  heard,  what  is  useful  for  a  speaker? — Said 
of  the  effect  of  speaking  too  loudly  ? 

What  is  more  conducive  than  mere  loudness  of  sound  to  being 
well  heard  and  clearly  understood  ?— What  is  said  of  a  quantity 
of  sound  filing  a  large  place  ? — Of  a  man  of  a  weak  voice  with  dis- 


PRONUNCIATION  OR  DELIVERY. 


173 


strongest  voice  can  reacli  without  it.  This,  therefore, 
demands  peculiar  attention.  The  speaker  must  give 
every  sound  its  due  proportion,  and  make  every  syl- 
lable, and  even  every  letter,  be  heard  distinctly.  To,j 
succeed  in  this,  rapidity  of  pronunciation  must  be, 
avoided.  A  lifeless,  di-awKiig  method,  however,  is 
not  to  be  indulged.  To  pronounce  with  a  proper  de- 
gree of  slowness,  and  with  full  and  clear  articulation, 
cannot  be  too  industriously  studied,  nor  too  earnestly 
recommended.  Such  pronunciation  gives  weight  and 
dignity  to  a  discourse.  It  assists  the  voice  by  the 
pauses  and  rests  which  it  allows  it  more  easily  to 
make  ;  and  it  enables  the  speaker  to  swell  all  his 
sounds  with  more  energy  and  more  music.  It  assists 
him  also  in  preserving  a  due  command  of  himself ; 
whereas,  a  rapid  and  hurried  manner  excites  that  flut- 
ter of  spirits,  which  is  the  greatest  enemy  to  all  right 
execution  in  oratory. 

To  the  propriety  of  pronunciation  nothing  is  more 
conducive  than  giving  to  every  word  Avhich  we  ut- 
ter that  sound  which  the  most  pohte  usage  appro- 
priates to  it,  in  opposition  to  broad,  vulgar,  or  pro- 
vincial pronmiciation.  On  this  subject,  however, 
w^ritten  instructions  avail  nothing.  But  there  is  one 
observation  which  it  may  be  useful  to  make.  In  our 
language,  every  word  of  more  syllables  than  one, 
has  one  accented  syllable.  The  genius  of  the  Ian 
guage  requires  the  voice  to  mark  that  syllable  by  a 
stronger  percussion,  and  to  pass  more  slightly  over 
the  rest.  The  same  accent  should  be  given  every 
word  in  public  speaking  and  in  common  discom'se.j 
Many  persons  err  in  this  respect.    When  they  speak 

tinct  articulation  ? — What  must  the  speaker  do  ? — To  succeed  in 
this,  what  must  be  avoided  ? — What  is  not  to  be  indulged  ? — What 
cannot  be  too  industriously  studied  ? — Said  of  such  pronunciation  ? 
—How  does  it  assist  the  voice  ? — IIow  does  it  assist  the  speaker  ? 

What  is  conducive  to  propi'iety  of  pronunciation  ? — On  this  sub- 
ject, do  written  instructions  avail  anything  ? — What  is  the  observa 
tion  which  it  is  thought  useful  to  make  ?— How  do  many  err  in  thia 
respect  ? — Said  of  this  error  ? 

16* 


1*14:  PRONUNCIATION  OR  DELIVERT. 

in  public  and  with  solemnity,  tliey  pronounce  differ- 
ently from  what  they  do  at  other  times.    They  dwell 
upon  syllables,  and  protract  them  ;  they  multiply  ac- 
cents on  the  same  word,  from  a  false  idea  that  it  give 
gravity  and  force  to  their  discourse,  and  increases  tli 
pomp  of  public  declamation.    But  this  is  one  of  th 
gi'eatest  faults  which  can  be  committed  in  pronuncia 
Hon  ;  it  constitutes  what  is  termed  a  theatrical  or 
mouthing  manner,  and  gives  an  artificial,  affected  air 
to  speech,  which  detracts  greatly  from  its  agreeable- 
ness  and  its  impression. 

We  shall  now  treat  of  those  higher  parts  of  de- 
livery, by  studying  which  a  speaker  endeavours,  not 
merely  to  render  himself  intelligible,  but  to  give  grace 
and  force  to  what  he  utters.  These  may  be  compre- 
hended under  four  heads, — emphasis,  pauses,  tones, 
and  gestures. 

By  emphasis  is  meant  a  fuller  and  stronger  sound 
of  voice,  by  which  we  distinguish  the  accent'ed  sylla- 
ble of  some  word,  on  which  we  intend  to  lay  particular 
stress,  and  to  show  how  it  affects  the  rest  of  the  sen- 
tence. To  acquire  the  proper  management  of  em- 
phasis, the  only  rule  is,  study  to  acquire  a  just  con- 
ception of  the  force  and  spirit  of  those  sentiments 
which  you  are  to  deliver.  In  all  prepared  discourses, 
it  would  be  extremely  useful,  if  they  were  read  over 
or  rehearsed  in  private,  with  a  view  of  ascertaining 
the  proper  emphasis,  before  they  were  pronounced  in 
public ;  marking,  at  the  same  time,  the  emphatical 
words  in  every  sentence,  or  at  least  in  the  most  im- 
portant parts  of  the  discourse,  and  fixing  them  wel 
in  memory.  A  caution,  however,  must  be  given 
against  multiplying  emphatical  words  too  much.  They 
become  striking,  only  when  used  with  prudent  reserve. 

What  are  we  now  to  treat  of  ? — Under  how  many  heads  may  these 
be  comprehended  ? 

What  is  meant  by  emphasis  ? — What  i  ule  is  given  to  acquire  th« 
proper  management  Of  emphasis  ? — What  would  be  useful  in  all  pre- 
pared discourses  ?— What  caution  is  given  ? 


PRONUNCIATION  OR  DELIVERY.  175 


If  tliey  recur  too  fi-eqiiently,  if  a  speaker  attempt  to 
render  every  thing  he  says  of  high  importance  by  a 
multitude  of  strong  emphasis,  they  will  soon  fail  to 
excite  the  attention  of  his  hearers. 

Next  to  emphasis,  pauses  demand  attention.  They 
are  of  two  kinds ;  first,  emphatical  pauses  ;  and  se 
condly,  such  as  mark  the  distinction  of  sense.  An 
emphatical  pause  is  made  after  something  has  been 
said  of  peculiar  moment,  on  which  we  wish  to  fix  the 
hearers'  attention.  Sometimes  a  matter  of  importance 
is  preceded  by  a  pause  of  this  nature.  Such  pauses 
have  the  same  effect  with  strong  emphasis,  and  are 
subject  to  the  same  rules ;  especially  to  the  caution 
just  now  given,  of  not  repeating  them  too  frequently. 
For,  as  they  excite  uncommon  attention,  and  conse- 
quently raise  expectation,  if  this  be  not  fully  answered, 
they  occasion  disappointment  and  disgust. 

But  the  most  frequent  and  the  principal  use  of  pau- 
ses is,  to  mark  the  divisions  of  the  sense,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  permit  the  speaker  to  draw^  his  breath  ; 
and  the  proper  management  of  such  pauses  is  one  of 
the  most  nice  and  difficult  articles  in  delivery.  A  pro- 
per command  of  the  breath  is  pecuharly  requisite.  To 
obtain  this,  every  speaker  should  be  very  careful  to 
provide  a  full  supply  of  breath  for  what  he  is  to  utter. 
It  is  a  great  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  breath  must 
be  drawn  only  at  the  end  of  a  period,  w^hen  the  voice 
is  allowed  to  fall.  It  may  easily  be  gathered  at  the 
intervals  of  a  period,  when  the  voice  sufiers  only  a 
momentary  suspension.  By  this  management,  a  suflS- 
cient  supply  may  be  obtained  for  carrying  on  the 
longest  period,  without  improper  interruptions. 


Next  to  emphasis,  v^hat  demand  attention  ? — What  are  the  two 
kinds  ? — When  is  an  emphatical  pause  made  ?— What  effect  have 
euch  pauses,  and  to  what  are  they  subject  ?— Why  ? 

What  is  the  most  frequent  and  principal  use  of  pauses  ? — What  is 
peculiarly  requisite  ? — To  obtain  this,  what  should  every  speaker  do  ? 
— What  is  a  great  mistake  ?— When  may  it  easily  be  gathered  ?— By 
this  management,  what  may  be  obtained  ? 


176 


PRONUNCIATION  OR  DELIVERY. 


Pauses  in  public  discourse  must  be  formed  upon 
tbe  manner  in  which  we  express  ourseh^es  in  sensible 
conversation,  and  not  upon  the  stiff,  artificial  manner 
which  we  acquire  from  perusing  books  according  to' 
common  punctuation.  Punctuation,  in  general,  is 
very  arbitrary ;  often  capricious  and  false ;  dictating 
a  uniformity  of  tone  in  the  pauses,  which  is  extremely 
unpleasing.  For  it  must  be  observed,  that  to  rendei 
pauses  graceful  and  expressive,  they  must  not  only  be 
made  in  the  right  places,  but  also  be  accompanied  by 
proper  tones  of  voice ;  by  which  the  nature  of  these 
pauses  is  intimated  much  more  than  by  their  length, 
which  can  never  be  exactly  measured.  Sometimes, 
only  a  slight  and  simple  suspension  of  the  voice  is 
proper ;  sometimes  a  degree  of  cadence  is  requisite ; 
and  sometimes  that  peculiar  tone  and  cadence  which 
mark  the  conclusion  of  a  period.  In  these  cases,  a 
speaker  is  to  regulate  himself  by  the  manner  in  which 
he  speaks  when  engaged  in  earnest  discourse  with 
others. 

In  reading  or  reciting  verse,  there  is  a  peculiar  diffi- 
culty in  making  the  pauses  with  propriety.  There 
are  two  kinds  of  pauses,  which  belong  to  the  music 
of  verse ;  one  at  the  end  of  a  line,  and  the  other  in 
the  middle  of  it.    Rhyme  always  renders  the  former 
sensible,  and  compels  observance  of  it  in  pronuncia- 
tion.   In  blank  verse,  it  is  less  perceivable ;  and  when 
there  is  no  suspension  of  the  sense,  it  has  been  doubt  ^ 
ed  whether,  in  reading  such  verse,  any  regard  should  1 
be  paid  to  the  close  of  a  line.    On  the  stage,  indeed,  f 
where  the  appearance  of  speaking  in  verse  should  be 
avoided,  the  close  of  such  lines  as  make  no  pause  in 


How  must  pauses  in  public  discourses  be  formed? — What  is  said 
of  punctuation  ? — How  are  pauses  rendered  graceful  and  expressiye  ? 
— In  all  cases,  how  is  the  speaker  to  regulate  himself? 

What  is  said  of  reading  and  reciting  verse ' — How  many  pauses 
ere  there  which  belong  to  the  music  of  verse  ? — What  does  rhyme 
render  the  former  1 — How  is  it  iu  blank  verse  ?— How  should  it  b« 


PRONUNCIATION  OR  DELIVERY.  J)1 

tlie  sense  should  not  be  rendered  perceptible  to  tlie 
ear.  On  other  occasions,  we  ought,  for  the  sake  of 
melody,  to  read  blank  verse  in  such  manner  as  tc 
make  each  line  sensible  to  the  ear.  In  attempting  this, 
however,  every  appearance  of  singsong  and  tone  must 
be  cautiously  avoided.  The  close  of  a  hne,  where 
there  is  no  pause  in  the  meaning,  should  be  marked 
only  by  so  slight  a  suspension  of  sound  as  may  dis- 
tinguish the  passage  from  one  hne  to  another,  without 
injuring  the  sense. 

The  pause  in  the  middle  of  the  line  fahs  after  tho. 
4th,  5th,  6th,  or  7th  syllable,  and  no  other.  When 
this  pause  coincides  with  the  slightest  division  in  the 
sense,  the  line  may  be  read  with  ease ;  as  in  the  &st 
two  hues  of  Pope's  Messiah  : 

Ye  nymphs  of  Solyma,  'begin  the  song, 

To  heavenly  themes  sublimer  strains  belong. 

But  if  words  that  have  so  intimate  a  connexion  as 
not  to  admit  even  a  momentary  separation,  be  divided 
from  each  other  by  this  cesural  pause,  we  then  per- 
ceive a  conflict  between  the  sense  and  sound,  which 
renders  it  difficult  to  read  such  lines  gracefully.  In 
such  cases,  it  is  best  to  sacrifice  sound  to  sense.  For 
instance,  in  the  following  lines  of  Milton  : 

What  in  me  is  dark,  * 
Illumine  ;  what  is  low,  raise  and  support. 

The  sense  clearly  dictates  the  pause  after  "illu- 
mine," which  ought  to  be  observed  ;  though  if  melody 
only  were  to  be  regarded,  "illumine"  should  be  con- 
nected with  what  follows,  and  no  pause  made  before 
the  4th  or  6th  syllable.  So  also  in  the  foUowing  line 
of  Pope's  Epistle  to  Arbuthnot : 


on  the  stage  ? — How  on  other  occasions  ? — In  attempting  this,  what 
should  be  avoided  ? — What  farther  directions  are  given  for  reading 
blank  verse  ?— Example. 

What  is  farther  said  on  the  subject  ? — Example  from  Milton. — 
Remarks  thereon  ?— Example  from  Pope's  Epistle  to  Arbuthnot. — 
Remarks  t 


PRONUNCIATION  OR  DELIVERY. 


I  sit  ;  -with  sad  civility  I  read. 

The  ear  points  out  the  pause  as  falling  after  "  sad," 
the  fourth  syllable.    But  to  separate  "  sad  "  and  "  civi 
lity  "  would  be  very  bad  reading.    The  sense  allows 
no  other  pause  than  after  the  second  syllable,  "  sit 
which,  therefore,  is  the  only  one  to  be  observed. 

We  proceed  to  treat  of  tones  in  pronunciation, 
which  are  different  both  fi'om  emphasis  and  pauses ; 
consisting  in  the  modulation  of  the  voice,  the  notes  or 
variations  of  sound  which  are  employed  in  public 
speaking.  The  most  material  instruction  which  can 
be  given  on  this  subject  is,  to  form  the  tones  of  public 
speaking  upon  the  tones  of  animated  conversation. 
Every  one  who  is  engaged  in  speaking  on  a  subject 
which  interests  him  nearly,  has  an  eloquent,  persua- 
sive tone  and  manner.  But  when  a  speaker  departs 
from  his  natural  tone  of  expression,  he  becomes  frigid 
and  unpersuasive.  Nothing  is  more  absurd  than  to 
suppose,  that  as  soon  as  a  speaker  ascends  a  pulpit,  or 
rises  in  a  public  assembly,  he  is  instantly  to  lay  aside 
the  voice  with  which  he  expresses  himself  in  private, 
and  to  assume  a  new,  studied  tone,  and  a  cadence 
altogether  different  from  his  natural  manner.  This 
has  vitiated  all  delivery,  and  has  given  rise  to  cant 
and  tedious  monotony.  Let  every  public  speaker 
guard  against  this  error.  Whether  he  speak  in  private 
or  in  a  great  assembly,  let  him  remember  than  he  still 
speaks.  Let  him  take  nature  for  his  guide,  and  she 
-will  teach  him  to  express  his  sentiments  and  feeHngs 
in  such  manner,  as  to  make  the  most  forcible  and 
pleasing  impression  upon  the  minds  of  his  hearers. 

It  now  remains  to  treat  of  gesture,  or  what  is  called 
action  in  public  discourse.  The  best  rule  is,  attend 
to  the  looks  and  gesture  in  which  earnestness,  indigna- 

To  what  do  we  now  proceed  ?— Consisting  in  what  ? — What  instruc- 
tion is  given  ? — What  has  every  one  ? — What  when  he  departs  from 
his  natural  tone  of  expression  ''. — Nothing  is  more  absurd  tlian  what? 
— What  has  this  done  ?— What  should  every  speaker  do  ? 

What  now  remains  to  be  treated  of  ?— What  is  the  best  rule!— 


PRONUNCIATION  OR  DELIVERY. 


119 


tion,  compassion,  or  any  other  emotion  discovers  itself 
to  most  advantage  in  the  common  intercourse  of  men ; 
and  let  these  be  yom-  model.  A  pubHc  speaker  must, 
however,  adopt  that  manner  which  is  most  natural  to 
himself  His  motions  and  gestures  ought  all  to  exhibit 
that  kind  of  expression  which  nature  has  dictated  to 
him ;  and  unless  this  be  the  case,  no  study  can  prevent 
their  appearing  stilf  and  forced.  But,  though  nature 
is  the  basis  on  which  every  grace  of  gesture  must  be 
founded,  yet  there  is  room  for  some  improvements  of 
art.  The  study  of  action  consists  chiefly  in  guarding 
against  awkward  and  disagreeable  motions,  and  in 
learning  to  perform  such  as  are  natural  to  the  speaker, 
in  the  most  graceful  manner.  Numerous  are  the  rules 
which  writei-s  have  laid  down  for  the  attainment  of  a 
proper  gesticulation.  But  written  instructions  on  this 
subject  can  be  of  httle  service.  To  become  useful, 
they  must  be  exemplified.  A  few  of  the  simplest 
precepts,  however,  may  be  observed  with  advantage. 
Every  speaker  should  study  to  preserve  as  much  dig- 
nity as  possible  in  the  attitude  of  his  body.  He 
should  generally  prefer  an  erect  posture ;  his  position 
should  be  firm,  that  he  may  have  the  fullest  and  h'eest 
command  of  all  his  motions.  If  any  inchnation  be 
used,  it  should  be  toward  the  hearers,  which  is  a  natural 
expression  of  earnestness.  The  countenance  should 
correspond  with  the  nature  of  the  discourse ;  and, 
when  no  particular  emotion  is  expressed,  a  serious  and 
manly  look  is  always  to  be  preferred.  The  eyes 
should  never  be  fixed  entirely  on  any  one  object,  but 
move  easily  round  the  audience.  In  motion  made 
with  the  hands  consists  the  principal  part  of  gesture 
in  speaking.  It  is  natural  for  the  right  hand  to  be 
employed  more  frequently  than  the  left.  Warm  emo- 
tions require  the  exercise  of  them  both  together.  But 


WTiat  manner  must  a  pnblic  speaker  adopt  T— What  does  the  study 
of  action  consist  in  ? — What  hare  writers  done  ?— Said  of  writtea 
instructions  ?— What  directions  are  given? 


180 


MEANS  OF  IMPROVING 


whether  a  speaker  gesticulate  with  one  or  with  both 
his  hands,  it  is  important  that  all  his  motions  be  easy 
and  unrestrained.  Narrow  and  confined  movements 
are  usually  ungTaceful ;  and,  consequently,  motions 
made  with  the  hands  should  proceed  from  the  shoul- 
der, rather  than  fi-om  the  elbow.  Perpendicular  move- 
ments are  to  be  avoided.  Oblique  motions  are  most 
pleasing  and  graceful.  Sudden  and  rapid  motions 
are  seldom  good.  Earnestness  can  be  fully  expressed 
without  their  assistance. 

We  cannot  conclude  this  subject,  without  earnestly 
admonishing  every  speaker  to  guard  against  aftecta- 
tion,  which  is  the  destruction  of  good  dehvery.  Let 
his  manner,  whatever  it  be,  be  his  own  ;  neither  imi- 
tated from  another,  nor  taken  from  some  imaginary, 
model,  which  is  unnatural  to  him.  Whatever  is  na- 
tive, though  attended  by  several  defects,  is  likely  to 
please,  because  it  shows  us  the  man  ;  and  because  it 
has  the  appearance  of  proceeding  from  the  heart.  To 
attain  a  delivery  extremely  correct  and  graceful  is 
what  few  can  expect ;  since  so  many  natural  talents 
must  concur  in  its  formation.  But  to  acquire  a  forcible 
and  persuasive  manner  is  within  the  power  of  most, 
persons.  They  need  only  to  dismiss  bad  habits,  follow 
nature,  and  speak  in  public  as  they  do  in  private, 
when  they  speak  in  earnest,  and  from  the  heart. 


LECTURE  XXIX. 

MEANS  OF  IMPROVING  IN  ELOQUENCE 

To  those  who  are  anxious  to  excel  in  any  of  the 
higher  kinds  of  oratory,  nothing  is  more  necessary 

What  admonition  is  given  ?— What  is  said  of  attaining  a  delivery 
BXtremely  correct  and  graceful? — Of  acquiring  a  forcible  and  per- 
suasive manner  ? 

What  is  the  stihjcct  of  this  lecture  ? 


IX  ELOQUENCE. 


181 


than  to  cultivate  habits  of  the  several  jijiues,  and  to 
refine  and  improve  their  moral  feelings.  A  ti^ne  ora- 
tor must  possess  generous  sentiments,  Avarm  feelings, 
and  a  mind  turned  towards  admiration  of  those  g;reat 
and  high  objects,  which  men  are  by  nature  formed  to 
venerate.  Connected  with  the  manly  vu-tues,  he 
should  possess  strong  and  tender  sensibility  to  all  the 
inj  aries,  distresses,  and  sorrows  of  his  fellow-creatures. 

IS'ext  to  moral  qualifications,  what  is  most  requisite 
for  an  orator  is  a  fund  of  knowledge.  There  is  no 
art  by  which  eloquence  can  be  taught,  in  any  sphere, 
without  a  sufiicient  acquaintance  v,i.t]i  what  belongs 
to  that  sphere.  Attention  to  the  ornaments  of  style 
can  only  assist  an  orator  in  setting  ofi'  to  advantage 
the  stock  of  materials  which  he  possesses ;  but  the 
materials  themselves  must  be  derived  from  other 
sources  than  from  rhetoric.  A  pleader  must  make 
himseh  completely  acquainted  with  the  law  ;  he  must 
possess  all  that  learning  and  experience  which  can  be 
useful  for  supporting  a  cause,  or  convincing  a  judge. 
A  preacher  must  apply  himself  closely  to  the  study 
of  divinity,  of  practical  religion,  of  morals,  and  of 
human  nature ;  that  he  may  be  rich  in  all  topics  of 
instruction  and  persuasion.  He  who  wishes  to  excel 
in  the  supreme  council  of  the  nation,  or  in  any  pubhc 
assembly,  should  be  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the 
business  that  belongs  to  such  assembly ;  and  should 
attend  with  accuracy  to  all  the  facts  which  may  be 
tie  subject  of  question  or  deliberation. 

Besides  the  knowledge  peculiar  to  his  profession,  a 
pubhc  speaker  shotild  be  acquainted  with  the  general 
♦  circle  of  polite  literature.  Poetry  he  will  find  useful 
for  embelHsInng  his  style,  for  suggesting  lively  ima- 


To  excel  in  any  of  the  higher  kinds  of  oratory,  -what  is  necess&ry? 

Next  to  moral  qnalifications,  what  is  most  requisite  for  an  orator  ? 
— What  must  a  pleader  do  ?— A  preacher  ? — He  who  wishes  to  exc^ 
in  the  supreme  council  of  the  nation  or  in  any  public  assembly  ? 

What  next  should  a  public  speaker  be  acquainted  with  ? — How 

16 


182 


MEANS  OF  IMPROVING 


ges,  or  pleasing  illusions.  History  may  be  still  more 
advantageous  ;  as  the  knowledge  of  facts,  of  eminent 
characters,  and  of  the  course  of  human  affairs,  finds 
place  on  many  occasions.  Deficiency  of  knowledge, 
even  in  subjects  not  immediately  connected  with  his 
profession,  will  expose  a  public  speaker  to  many  dis- 
advantages, and  give  his  rivals,  who  are  better  quali- 
fied, a  decided  superiority. 

To  every  one,  who  wishes  to  excel  in  eloquence, 
apphcation  and  industry  cannot  be  too  much  recom- 
mended. Without  this,  it  is  impossible  to  excel  in 
any  thing.  No  one  ever  became  a  distinguished 
pleader,  or  preacher,  or  speaker,  in  any  assembly, 
without  previous  labour  and  application.  Industry, 
indeed,  is  not  only  necessary  to  every  valuable  acqui- 
sition, but  it  is  designed,  by  Prov^dence,  as  the  season- 
ing of  every  pleasure,  without  which,  life  is  doomed 
to  languish.  No  enemy  is  so  destructive,  both  to 
honourable  attainments,  and  to  the  real  and  spirited 
enjoyment  of  life,  as  that  relaxed  state  of  mind,  which 
proceeds  from  indolence  and  dissipation.  He,  who  is 
destined  to  excel  in  any  art,  will  be  distinguished  by 
enthusiasm  for  that  art ;  which,  firing  his  mind  with 
the  object  in  view,  will  dispose  him  to  rehsh  every 
necessary  labour.  This  was  the  characteristic  of  the 
great  men  of  antiquity ;  and  this  must  distinguish 
moderns  who  wish  to  imitate  them.  This  honoura- 
ble enthusiasm  should  be  cultivated  by  students  in 
oratory.  If  it  be  wanting  to  youth,  manhood  will 
flag  exceedingly. 

Attention  to  the  best  models  contributes  greatly  to 


will  he  find  poetry  useful  ? — History  ? — What  will  deficiency  of 
kiiowledge  expose  him  to  ? 

What  is  recommended  ?— Said  of  its  importance? — What  is  indus- 
try designed  by  Providence  for  ? — What  is  said  of  a  relaxed  state  of 
mind  which  proceeds  from  indolence  and  dissipation  ? — What  is  he 
distinguished  for  who  is  destined  to  excel  in  any  art  ?— This  was  the 
characteristic  of  whom  ? — Must  distinguish  whom  ? — Should  be  cul- 
tiyated  by  whom  ?— What  if  it  be  wanting  to  youth  ? 


IN  ELOQUENCE. 


18S 


improvement  in  the  arts  of  speaking  and  wiiting. 
Every  one,  indeed,  slioidd  endeavour  to  have  some- 
thing that  is  his  own,  that  is  pecuhar  to  himself,  and 
wHl  distinguish  his  style.  Genius  is  eertamly  de- 
pressed, or  the  want  of  it  betrayed,  by  slavish  imita- 
tion. Yet,  no  genius  is  so  original,  as  not  to  receive 
improvement  from  proper  examples  in  style,  compo- 
sition, and  delivery.  They  always  afford  some  new 
ideas,  and  serve  to  enlarge  and  correct  our  own. 
They  quicken  the  cm-rent  of  thought,  and  excite 
emulation. 

In  imitating  the  style  of  a  favourite  author,  a  mate- 
rial distinction  should  be  observed,  between  written  / 
and  spoken  language.     These  are,  in  reahty,  tw^o  / 
different  modes  of  communicating  ideas.    In  books,  ' 
we  expect   correctness,  precision,  all  redundancies 
pruned,  all  repetitions  avoided,  language  completely  . 
polished.     Speaking  allows  a  more  easy,  copious 
style,  and  less  confined  by  rule ;  repetitions  may  often 
be  requisite  ;  parentheses  may  sometimes  be  orna- 
mental ;  the  same  thought  must  often  be  placed  in 
different  points  of  view  ;  since  the  hearers  can  catch 
it  only  from  the  mouth  of  the  speaker,  and  have  not 
the  opportunity,  as  in  reading,  of  turning  back  again, 
and  of  contemplating  what  they  do  not  entirely  com- 
prehend.    Hence,  the  style  of  many  good  authors 
would  appear  stift',  affected,  and  even  obscure,  if 
transferred  into  a  popular  oration.    How  unnatural, 
for  instance,  would  Lord  Shaftsbury's  sentences  sound 
in  the  mouth  of  a  public  speaker  ?    Some  kinds  of 
pubHc  discourse,  indeed,  such  as  that  of  the  pulpit, 


What  is  said  of  attention  to  the  best  models  ? — What  should  every 
one  endeavour  to  have  ? — What  is  the  effect  of  slavish  imitation 
upon  genius? — Said  of  the  improvement  of  genius  ? — What  do  they 
do  ? 

In  imitating  the  style  of  a  favorite  author,  what  should  be  ob- 
served 1 — What  do  we  expect  in  books  ? — What  does  speaking  allow  ? 
— Hence,  how  would  the  style  of  many  good  authors  appear  ? — What 
instance  is  adduced  ? — In  what  kind  of  public  discourses  wo^lid  thia 


MEANS  OF  IMPROVINa 


where  more  accurate  preparation  and  more  studied 
style  are  allowable,  would  admit  such  a  manner  better 
than  others,  which  are  expected  to  approach  nearer 
to  extemporaneous  speaking.  But  still  there  is  gene- 
rally such  a  difference  between  a  composition,  intend- 
ed only  to  be  read,  and  one  proper  to  be  spoken,  as 
should  caution  us  against  a  close  and  improper  imi- 
tation. 

The  composition  of  some  authors  approaches  nearer 
to  the  style  of  speaking,  than  that  of  others,  and  they 
may  therefore  be  imitated  with  more  safety.  In  our 
own  language.  Swift  and  BoKngbroke  are  of  this  de- 
scription. The  former,  though  correct,  preserves  the 
easy  and  natural  manner  of  an  unaffected  speaker. 
The  style  of  the  latter  is  more  splendid ;  but  still  it  is 
the  style  of  speaking,  or  rather  of  declamation. 

Frequent  exercise,  both  in  composing  and  speaking, 
is  a  necessary  means  of  improvement.  That  kind  of 
composition  is  most  useful,  which  is  connected  with 
the  profession,  or  sort  of  public  speaking,  to  which 
persons  devote  themselves.  This  they  should  ever 
keep  in  view,  and  gradually  inure  themselves  to  it 
At  the  same  time,  they  should  be  cautious  not  to  allow 
themselves  to  compose  negligently  on  any  occasion. 
He,  v/ho  wishes  to  write  or  speak  correctly,  should, 
in  the  most  trivial  kind  of  composition,  in  writing  a 
letter,  or  even  in  common  conversation,  study  to  ex- 
press himself  with  propriety.  By  this,  we  do  not 
mean  that  he  is  never  to  write  or  speak,  but  in  elabo- 
late  and  artificial  language.     This  would  mtroduce 


be  allowable  better  than  in  others  ? — But  stiU  there  is  a  diflFerence 
between  what  ? — As  should  caution  us  against  what  ? 

What  is  said  of  the  composition  of  some  authors  ? — In  our  own 
language,  who  are  of  this  description  ? — Said  of  the  former  ? — The 
style  of  the  latter  ? 

What  is  a  necessary  means  of  improyement  ? — What  kind  of  com- 
position is  the  most  useful  ? — At  the  same  time,  of  what  should  they 
be  cautioi\s  ? — "What  direction  is  given  to  him  who  wishes  to  write 
or  speak  correctly  ? — By  this  what  is  not  meant  ? — What  would  thia 


IN  ELOQUENCE. 


165 


stiffness  and  affectation,  infinitely  worse  tlian  tlie 
.  gTeatest  negligence.  But  -we  must  observe,  that  theie 
is,  in  everything,  a  proper  and  becoming  manner: 
and,  on  the  contrary,  there  is  also  an  awkward  per- 
formance of  the  same  thing.  The  becoming  manner 
is  often  the  most  hght,  and  seemingly  most  careless  ; 
but  taste  and  attention  are  requisite  to  seize  the  just 
idea  of  it.  That  idea,  when  acquired,  should  be  kept 
in  view,  and  upon  it  should  be  formed  whatever  we 
wiite  or  speak. 

Exercises  in  speaking  have  always  been  recom- 
mended to  students  ;  and,  when  under  proper  regula- 
tion, must  be  of  gi-eat  use.  Those  public  and  pro- 
miscuous societies,  in  which  numbers  are  brought 
together,  who  are  frequently  of  low  stations  and  occu- 
pations ;  who  are  connected  by  no  common  bond  of 
union,  except  a  ridiculous  rage  for  public  speaking, 
and  have  no  other  object  in  view,  than  to  exhibit  their 
supposed  talents,  are  institutions,  not  only  useless,  but 
injurious.  They  are  calculated  to  become  seminaries 
of  hcentiousness,  petulance  and  faction.  Even  the 
allowable  meetings,  into  which  students  of  oratory 
may  form  themselves,  need  dhection,  in  order  to  ren- 
der them  useful.  If  their  subjects  of  discourse  be 
improperly  chosen;  if  they  support  extravagant  or 
indecent  topics ;  if  they  indulge  themselves  in  loose 
and  flimsy  declamation ;  or  accustom  themselves  with- 
out preparation  to  speak  pertly  on  all  subjects,  they 
will  unavoidably  acquhe  a  very  faulty  and  vicious 
taste  in  speaking.  It  should,  therefore,  be  recom- 
mended to  all  those  who  are  members  of  such  socie- 
ties, to  attend  to  the  choice  of  their  subjects  ;  to  take 
care  that  they  be  useful  and  manly,  either  connected 


introdiice  ? — What  is  obserTcd  ? — What  is  often,  the  becoming  man- 
ner 1 — What  are  requisite  ? — Said  of  that  idea  ? 

Said  of  exercises  in  speaking  ? — Of  public  and  promiscuoug  so. 
cieties  ?— Of  allowable  meetings  ?— What  should  therefore  be  recora' 
mended  ?— By  these  means  what  will  they  gradually  form  ? 

16* 


186 


MEANS  OF  IMPROVING 


witli  the  course  of  tlieir  studies,  or  related  to  morals 
and  taste,  to  action  and  life.  They  should  also  be 
temperate  in  the  practice  of  speaMng ;  not  speak  too 
often,  nor  on  subjects  of  which  they  are  ignorant ;  but 
only  when  they  have  proper  materials  for  a  discourse, 
and  have  previously  considered  and  digested  the  sub- 
ject. In  speaMng,  they  should  be  cautious  always  to 
keep  good  sense  and  persuasion  in  view,  rather  than 
a  show  of  eloquence.  By  these  means,  they  will 
gradually  form  them^selves  to  a  manly,  correct,  and 
persuasive  manner  of  speaking. 
/  It  may  now  be  asked,  of  what  use  will  the  study 
/  of  critical  and  rhetorical  writers  be,  to  those  who  wish 
*  to  excel  In  eloquence  ?  They  certainly  ought  not  to 
be  neglected;  and  yet,  perhaps,  very  much  cannot 
be  expected  from  them.  It  is,  however,  from  the 
original  ancient  writers,  that  the  greatest  advantage 
may  be  derived  ;  and  it  is  a  disgrace  to  any  one, 
whose  profession  calls  him  to  speak  in  public,  to  be 
luiacquainted  with  them.  In  all  the  ancient  rhetorical 
writers,  there  is  indeed  one  defect ; .  they  are  too,  sys- 
tematical. They  aim  at  doing  too  much  ;  at  reducing 
rhetoric  to  a  perfect  art,  which  may  even  supply  in- 
vention with  materials,  on  every  subject :  so  that  one 
would  suppose  they  expected  to  form  an  orator  by 
rule,  as  they  would  form  a  carj^enter.  But  in  reality, 
all  that  can  be  done,  is  to  assist  and  enlighten  taste, 
and  to  point  out  to  genius  the  course  it  ought  to  hold- 
Aristotle  was  the  first  who  toc^k  rhetoric  out  of  th 
hands  of  the  sophists,  and  founded  it  on  reason  and 
solid  sense.  Some  of  the  profoundest  observation 
which  have  been  made  on  the  passions  and  manners 
of  men,  are  to  be  found  in  his  treatise  on  Rhetoric ; 


From  what  -writers  may  the  greatest  advantage  be  derived,  by 
those  who  wish  to  excel  in  eloquence? — What  is  the  defect  of  the 
ancient  rhetorical  writers  ? — What  can  be  done  to  form  an'  orator  ? 

Who  first  founded  rhetoric  on  reason  and  solid  sense  ? — Where 
may  the  profoundest  observations  on  the  passions  and  manneuB  oj 


IN  ELOQUENCE. 


187 


tlio'tigli  in  this,  as  in  all  his  writings,  his  great  concise- 
ness often  renders  him  obscure.  The  Greek  rhetori- 
cians, who  succeeded  him,  most  of  whom  are  now 
lost,  improved  on  his  foundation.  Two  of  them  still 
remain,  Demetrius  Phalereus,  and  Dionysius  of  Hali- 
carnassus.  Both  wrote  on  the  construction  of  sen 
tences,  and  deserve  to  be  consulted;  particularly 
Dionysius,  who  is  a  very  accurate  amd  judicious  critic. 

To  recommend  the  rhetorical  writings  of  Cicero  is 
superfluous.  Whatever,  on  the  subject  of  eloquence, 
is  suggested  by  so  great  an  orator,  must  be  worthy  of 
attention.  His  most  extensive  work,  on  this  subject, 
is  that  De  Oratore.  None  of  his  writings  are  more 
highly  finished  than  this  treatise.  The  dialogue  is 
polite ;  the  characters  are  well  supported,  and  the 
management  of  the  whole  is  beautiful  and  pleasing. 
The  Orator  ad  M,  Brutum  is  also  a  valuable  treatise ; 
and,  indeed,  through  all  Cicero's  rhetorical  works 
are  displayed  those  sublime  ideas  of  eloquence  which 
are  calculated  to  form  a  just  taste,  and  to  inspire 
that  enthusiasm  for  the  art,  which  is  highly  condu- 
cive to  excellence. 

But  of  all  ancient  writers  on  the  subject  of  oratory,  . 
the  most  instructive  and  most  useful  is  Quintilian.  His 
institutions  abound  with  good  sense,  and  discover  a 
taste,  in  the  highest  degree  just  and  accurate.  Al- 
most all  the  principles  of  good  criticism  are  found  in 
them.  He  has  well  digested  the  ancient  ideas  con- 
cerning rhetoric,  and  has  delivered  his  instructioiis  in 
elegant  and  polished  language. 


men  be  found  ?— Who  improved  on  his  foundation  ? — Do  any  oi 
them  still  remain  ?— What  did  they  write  on  ? 

What  is  superfluous  ? — Why  ? — Which  is  Cicero's  most  extensive 
work  on  eloquence  ? — What  is  said  of  this  treatise  ? — What  is  said 
to  be  displayed  in  all  of  Cicero's  rhetorical  works  ? 

Of  all  the  ancient  writers  on  the  subject  of  oratory,  who  is  th» 
most  instructive  and  useful  ? — What  is  said  of  his  institutions  1 


L188J 


LECTURE  XXX. 

COMPARATIVE  MERIT  OF  THE  ANCIENTS  AND 
MODERNS. 

A  VERY  curious  question  has  been  agitated,  with 
regard  to  the  comparative  merit  of  the  ancients  and 
moderns.  In  France  this  dispute  was  carried  on  with 
great  heat  between  Boileau  and  Madame  Dacier,  for 
the  ancients,  and  Perrault  and  La  Motte,  for  the  mo- 
derns. Even  at  this  day,  men  of  letters  are  dividea 
on  the  subject.  A  few  reflections  upon,  it  may  be 
useful. 

To  decry  the  ancient  classics  is  a  vain  attempt. 
Their  reputation  is  established  upon  too  sohd  a  foun- 
dation to  be  shaken.  Imperfections  may  be  traced  in 
their  writings :  but  to  discredit  their  works  in  general, 
can  belong  only  to  peevishness  or  prejudice.  The 
approbation  of  the  public  through  so  many  centuries, 
establishes  a  verdict  in  their  favour,  from  which  there 
is  no  appeal. 

In  matters  of  mere  reasoning  the  world  may  be  long 
in  error  ;  and  systems  of  philosophy  often  have  a  cur- 
rency for  a  time,  and  then  die.  But  in  objects  of  taste 
there  is  no  such  falhbihty ;  as  they  depend  not  on 
knowledge  and  science,  but  upon  sentiment  and  feel- 
ino*.  Now  the  universal  feelino:  of  mankind  must  be 
right ;  Homer  and  Virgil,  therefore,  must  continue  to 
stand  upon  the  same  ground  which  they  have  so  long 
occupied. 


What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

A  qiiestion  has  been  agitated  concerning  what  ? — Between  whom 
has  this  dispute  been  carried  on  ? 

What  is  a  vain  attempt  ? — Why  ? — What  establishes  a  verdict  in 
favour  of  the  ancient  classics,  from  which  there  is  no  appeal  ? 

In  what  may  the  world  be  long  in  error  ? — What  is  there  not  in 
objects  of  taste  ? — What  do  objects  of  taste  depend  on  ? — What  must 
be  right  ? — Hence,  what  is  said  of  Homer  and  Virgil  ? 


COMPARISON  OF  THE  AXCIENTS,  ETC.  189 


Let  us  guard,  however,  against  blind  veneration  for 
die  ancients,  and  institute  a  fair  comparison  between 
tliem  and  tlie  moderns.  If  the  ancients  had  the  pre- 
eminence in  genius,  vet  the  moderns  must  have  some 
advantage  in  all  arts,  which  are  improved  by  the 
natural  progi'ess  of  knowledge. 

Hence,  in  natural  philosophy,  astronomy,  chemis-, 
try,  and  other  sciences,  which  rest  upon  observation  of 
facts,  the  moderns  have  a  decided  superiority  over 
the  ancients.  Perhaps,  too,  in  precise  r^.-asc>niug,  phi- 
losophei-s  of  modern  ages  are  superior  to  those  of  an- 
cient times  ;  as  a  more  extensive  hterary  intercourse 
has  contributed  to  shaiiDen  the  faculties  of  men.  The 
moderns  have  also  the  superioiity  in  history  and  in 
political  knowledge  ;  owing  to  the  entension  of  com- 
merce, the  discovery  of  different  countries,  the  supe- 
rior facility  of  intercourse,  and  the  multiphcity  of 
events  and  revoltitions,  which  have  taken  place  in  the 
world.  In  poetry,  hkewise,  some  advantages  have 
been  gained,  in  point  of  regularity  and  accuracy.  In 
dramatic  pei-formances,  improvements  have  certainly 
been  made  upon  the  ancient  models.  The  variety  of 
characters  is  gTeater  ;  gi-eater  sMU  has  been  chsplay- 
ed.  in  the  concluct  of  the  plot ;  and  a  happier  attention 
to  probability  and  decorum.  Among  the  ancients  we 
find  higher  conceptions,  greater  simphcity,  and  more 
original  fancy.  Among  the  moderns,  there  is  more 
of  art  and  correctness,  but  less  genius.  But  though 
this  remark  may,  in  general,  be  just,  there  are  some 
exceptions  from  it ;  Milton  and  Shakspeare  are  in 
ferior  to  no  poets  in  any  age. 


t 

Let  us  guard  against  Tfhat  ?— Institute  what  ? — The  ancients  had 
a  pre-eminence  in  what  ? — The  moderns  have  an  advantage  in 
vrhat  ? 

In  what  hare  the  moderns  a  superiority  oxer  the  ancients  ? — 
Perhaps  also  in  what  ? — Why  ? — What  is  their  supericriTy  in  his 
tory  and  political  knowledge  owing  to  ? — What  is  said  of  dramatic 
performances  ? — Of  Milton  and  Sha^peare  ? 


190  COMPARISON  OF  THE  ANCIENTS,  ETC. 

Among  the  ancients,  were  many  circumstances  fa- 
vourable to  tlie  exertions  of  genius.  They  travelled 
much  in  search  of  learning,  and  conversed  with  priests, 
poets,  and  philosophers.  They  returned  home  full  of 
discoveries,  and  fired  by  uncommon  objects.  Their 
enthusiasm  was  greater  ;  and  few  being  stimulated  to 
excel  as  authors,  their  fame  was  more  intense  and 
flattering.  In  modern  times,  good  writing  is  less 
prized.  We  write  with  less  effort.  Printing  has  so 
multiplied  books  that  assistance  is  easily  procured. 
Hence  mediocrity  of  genius  prevails.  To  rise  beyond 
this,  and  to  soar  above  the  crowd,  is  given  to  few. 

Li  epic  poetry,  Homer  and  Virgil  are  still  unrival- 
ed ;  and  orators,  equal  to  Demosthenes  and  Cicero, 
we  have  none.  In  history  we  have  no  modern  nar- 
ration so  elegant,  so  picturesque,  so  animated  and  in- 
teresting, as  those  of  Herodotus,  Thucydides,  Xeno- 
phon,  Livy,  Tacitus,  and  Sallust.  Our  dramas,  with 
all  their  improvements,  are  inferior  in  poetry  and 
/sentiment  to  those  of  Sophocles  and  Euripides.  We 
have  no  comic  dialogue  that  equals  the  correct,  grace- 
ful, and  elegant  simplicity  of  Terence.  The  elegies 
of  TibuUus,  the  pastorals  of  Theocritus,  and  the  lyric 
poetry  of  Horace  are  still  unrivalled.  By  those, 
therefore,  who  wish  to  form  their  taste,  and  nourish 
their  genius,  the  utmost  attention  must  be  paid  to  the 
ancient  classics,  both  Greek  and  Roman. 

After  these  reflections  on  the  ancients  and  moderns, 
we  proceed  to  a  critical  examination  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished kinds  of  composition,  and  of  the  charactere 
of  those  writers,  whether  ancient  or  modern,  who  have 
excelled  in  them.    Of  orations  and  public  discourses, 

What  circumstances  among  the  ancients  were  favourable  to  the 
exertions  of  genius  ? — What  is  said  respecting  modern  times  ? 

Who  are  unrivalled  in  epic  poetry  ? — Who  in  oratory  ? — What  is 
said  of  our  history  ? — Our  dramas  ? — Our  comic  dialogue  ? — What 
must  those  do  -who  wish  to  form  their  taste  and  nourish  their 
genius  ? 

We  proceed  to  what  ? — Much  has  already  been  said  of  what  ? — • 
How  may  the  remaining  prose  compositions  be  divided  ? 


HISTORICAL  WRITING. 


191 


much  has  already  been  said.  The  remaining  prose 
compositions  may  be  divided  into  historical  writing, 
philosophical  writing,  epistolary  writing,  and  fictitious 
history. 


LECTURE  XXXI. 
HISTORICAL  WRITING. 

History  is  a  record  of  truth  for  the  instruction  of 
mankind.  Hence,  the  great  requisites  in  an  historian 
are,  inipartiality,  fidelity,  and  accuracy. 

In  the  conduct  "of  historical  detail,  the  first  object  of 
an  historian  should  be,  to  give  his  work  all  possible 
unity.  History  should  not  consist  of  unconnected 
parts.  Its  portions  should  be  united  by  some  con- 
necting principle,  which  will  produce  in  the  mind  an 
impression  of  something  that  is  one,  whole  and  en- 
tire. Polybius,  though  not  an  elegant  writer,  is  re- 
markable for  this  quality. 

An  historian  should  trace  actions  and  events  to  their 
sources.  He  should,  therefore,  be  well  acquainted 
with  human  natm-e  and  politics.  His  skill  in  the 
former  will  enable  him  to  describe  the  characters  of 
individuals ;  and  his  knowledge  of  the  latter,  to  ac- 
count for  the  revolutions  of  government,  and  the  ope- 
ration of  political  causes  on  pubhc  aftahs.  With  re- 
gard to  political  knowledge,  the  ancients  wanted  some 
advantages,  which  are  enjoyed  by  the  moderns.  In 
ancient  times  there  was  less  communication  among 


What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  is  history  ? — The  great  requisites  of  an  historian  are  what  : 
In  historical  detail,  what  should  be  the  first  object  of  the  histo- 
rian ? 

What  should  an  historian  do  ? — With  what  should  he  be  well  ae 
ijuainted  ? 


192 


HISTORICAL  WRITING. 


neiglibouring  states;  no  intercourse  by  established 
posts,  nor  by  ambassadors  at  distant  courts.  Larger 
experience,  too,  of  the  difterent  modes  of  government 
has  improved  the  modern  historian,  beyond  the  histo- 
rian of  antiquity. 

It  is,  however,  in  the  form  of  narrative,  and  not  by 
dissertation,  that  the  historian  is  to  impart  his  pohtical 
knowledge.  Formal  discussions  expose  him  to  suspi- 
cion of  being  wilhng  to  accommodate  his  facts  to 
his  theory.  They  have  also  an  air  of  pedantry,  and 
evidently  result  from  want  of  art.  For  reflections, 
whether  moral,  political,  or  philosophical,  may  be 
insinuated  in  the  body  of  a  narrative. 

Clearness,  order,  and  connexion  are  primary  virtues 
in  historical  narration.  These  are  attained  when 
the  historian  is  complete  master  of  his  subject;  can 
see  the  whole  at  one  view  ;  and  comprehend  the  de- 
pendence of  all  its  parts.  History  being  a  dignified 
species  of  composition,  it  should  also  be  conspicuous 
for  gravity.  There  should  be  notbmg  mean  nor 
vulgar  in  the  style :  no  quaintness,  no  smartness,  no 
affectation,  no  wit.  A  history  should  likewise  be  in- 
teresting ;  and  this  is  the  quality  which  chiefly  dis- 
tinguishes a  writer  of  genius  and  eloquence. 

To  be  interesting,  an  historian  must  preserve  a  me- 
dium between  rapid  recital,  and  prolix  detail.  He 
should  know  when  to  be  concise,  and  when  to  enlarge. 
He  should  make  a  proper  selection  of  circumstances. 
These  give  life,  body,  and  colouring  to  his  narration. 
They  constitute  what  is  termed  historical  painting. 

In  all  these  virtues  of  narration,  particularly  in 
picturesque  description,  the  ancients  eminently  excel. 


How  should  the  historian  impart  his  political  knowledge  ? — What 
\b  said  of  formal  discussions  ? — What  of  narratiye  ? 

What  are  primary  virtues  in  historical  narration? — When  are 
these  attained  ? — History  should  be  conspicuous  for  what  ? — What 
Bhonid  not  be  in  the  style  ? 

What  must  an  historian  do  to  be  interesting  ? 


HISTORICAL  WRITING. 


193 


Hence,  tlie  pleasure  of  reading  Thiicydides,  Livy, 
SiiUust,  and  Tacitus.  In  historical  painting  there 
are  great  varieties.  Livy  and  Tacitus  paint  in  very 
different  ways.  The  descriptions  of  Livy  are  full, 
plain,  and  natural;  those  of  Tacitus  are  short  and 
bold. 

One  embellishment,  which  the  moderns  have  laid 
aside,  was  employed  by  the  ancients.  They  put  ora- 
tions into  the  mouths  of  celebrated  personages.  By 
these  they  diversified  their  history,  and  conveyed 
both  moral  and  political  instruction.  Thucydides  was 
the  fii-st  who  adopted  this  method;  and  the  orations, 
with  which  his  history  abounds,  are  valuable  remains 
of  antiquity.  It  is  doubtful,  hu'Acver,  whether  this 
embellishment  should  be  allowed  to  the  historian  ; 
for  they  form  a  mixture,  unnatural  to  history,  of  truth 
and  fiction.  The  moderns  are  more  chaste,  when, 
on  gTeat  occasions,  the  historian  delivers,  in  his  own 
person,  the  sentiments  and  reasonings  of  opposite 
parties. 

Another  splendid  embellishment  of  history  is,  the 
delineation  of  characters.  These  are  considered  as 
exhibitions  of  fine  writing ;  and  hence  the  chfficulty 
of  excelhng  in  this  produce :  for  characters  may  be 
too  shining  and  laboured.  The  accomplished  histo- 
rian avoids  here  to  dazzle  too  much.-  He  is  solicitous 
to  give  the  resemblance  in  a  style  equally  removed 
from  meanness  and  aftectation.  He  studies  the 
gTandeur  of  simphcity. 

Sound  morality  should  always  reign  in  history. 
An  historian  should  ever  show  himself  on  the  side 
of  \ii-tue.    It  is  not,  however,  his  province  to  deliver 


The  ancient?  excel  in  what  Tirtues  ? — ^Hence.  what  ? 
What  embellishment  was  employed  by  the  ancients  ? — What  is 
said  of  it  ? 

"R  hat  is  another  embellishment  rf  history? — Said  of  it  ? — The  ac- 
complished historian  does  what? 

What  should  always  reign  in  history  ? — An  historian  should  eyer 
do  what  ? 

17 


194 


HISTORICAL  WRITING. 


moral  instructions  in  a  formal  manner.  He  should 
excite  indignation  against  the  designing  and  the 
vicious  ;  and  by  appeals  to  the  passions,  he  will  not 
only  improve  his  reader,  but  take  away  from  the 
natural  coolness  of  historical  narration. 

In  modern  times,  historical  genius  has  shone  most 
in  Italy.  Acuteness,  political  sagacity,  and  wisdom 
are  all  conspicuous  in  Machiavel,  Guicciardin,  Davi 
la,  Bentivoglio,  and  Father  Paul.  In  Great  Britain, 
history  has  been  fashionable  only  a  few  j^ears.  For 
though  Clarendon  and  Burnet  are  considerable  his- 
torians, they  are  inferior  to  Hume,  Robertson,  and 
Gibbon. 

The  inferior  kinds  of  histoncal  composition  are 
annals,  memoirs,  and  lives.  Annals  are  a  collection 
of  facts  in  chronological  order ;  and  the  properties  of 
an  annahst  are  fidelity  and  distinctness.  Memoirs 
are  a  species  of  composition,  in  Avhich  an  author  pre- 
tends not  to  give  a  complete  detail  of  facts,  but  only 
to  record  what  he  himself  knew,  or  was  concerned 
in,  or  what  ihustrates  the  conduct  of  some  person,  or 
some  transaction,  which  he  chooses  for  his  subject. 
It  is  not,  therefore,  expected  of  such  a  writer,  that 
he  possesses  the  same  profound  research,  and  those 
superior  talents,  which  are  requisite  in  an  historian. 
It  is  chiefly  required  of  him,  that  he  be  sprightly  and 
interesting.  The  French,  during  two  centuries,  have 
poured  forth  a  flood  of  memoirs  ;  the  most  of  which 
are  little  more  than  agreeable  trifles.  We  must,  how- 
ever, except  from  this  censure  the  memoirs  of  the 
Cardinal  de  Retz,  and  those  of  the  Duke  of  Sully. 
The  former  join  to  a  lively  narrative  great  knowledge 
of  human  nature :  the  latter  deserve  very  particular 
praise.    They  approach  to  the  usefulness  and  dignity 

Where  has  historical  genius  shone  most  in  modern  times  ? — What 
is  said  of  certain  historians  ? — What  is  said  of  the  history  and  his- 
torians of  Great  Britain  ? 

What  are  annals  ? — What  are  memoirs  ? — Said  of  the  memoirs  of 
the  Cardinal  de  Retz.  and  of  the  Duke  of  Sully  ? 


HISTORICAL  WRITING. 


195 


of  legitimate  history.  Tliey  are  full  of  virtue  and 
good  sense;  and  are  well  calculated  to  form  both 
the  heads  and  hearts  of  those  who  are  designed  for 
public  business  and  high  stations  in  the  world. 

Biography  is  a  very  useful  kind  of  composition;' 
ess  stately  than  history,  but  perhaps  not  less  instruc-i 
Ve.  It  affords  full  opportunity  of  displaying  thei 
characters  of  eminent  men,  and  of  entering  into  a^ 
thorough  acquaintance  with  them.  In  this  kind  of 
writing  Plutarch  excels ;  but  his  matter  is  better  than 
his  manner ;  he  has  no  peculiar  beauty  nor  elegance. 
His  judgment  and  accuracy  also  are  sometimes  taxed. 
But  he  is  a  very  humane  writer,  and  fond  of  display- 
ing great  men  in  the  gentle  lights  of  retirement. 

Before  we  conclude  this  subject,  it  is  proper  to 
observe,  that  of  late  years,  a  great  improvement  has 
been  introduced  into  historical  composition.  More 
particular  attention  than  formerly  has  been  given  to 
laws,  customs,  commerce,  religion,  literature,  and  to 
every  thing  that  shows  the  spirit  and  genius  of  na- 
tions. It  is  now  conceived,  that  an  historian  ought 
to  illustrate  manners  as  well  as  facts  and  events. 
"Whatever  displays  the  state  of  mankind  in  different 
periods ;  whatever  illustrates  the  progress  of  the  hu- 
man mind,  is  more  useful  than  details  of  sieges  and 
battles. 


What  is  biography  ? — What  does  it  afford  ? — What  is  said  of 
Plutarch  ? 

Have  improvements  been  introduced  lately  in  historical  compcai* 
tion  7— What  are  they  ? 


[196] 


LECTURE  XXXII. 

PHILOSOPHICAL    WRITING.— DIALOGUE.— EPISTO- 
LARY WRITING  — FICTITIOUS  HISTORY 

Of  philosophy  the  professed  design  is  instriictiou. 
"With  the  philosopher,  therefore,  style,  form,  and  dress 
are  inferior  objects.  But  they  must  not  be  wholly 
neglected.  The  same  truths  and  reasonings,  delivered 
with  elegance,  will  strike  more  than  in  a  dull  and  dry 
manner. 

Beyond  mere  perspicuity,  the  strictest  precision 
and  accuracy  are  required  in  a  philosophical  writer ; 
and  these  qualities  may  be  possessed  without  dry- 
ness. Philosophical  writing  admits  a  polished,  neat, 
and  elegant  style.  It  admits  the  calm  figures  of 
speech ;  but  rejects  whatever  is  florid  and  tumid. 
Plato  and  Cicero  have  left  philosophical  treatises, 
composed  with  much  elegance  and  beauty.  Seneca 
is  too  fond  of  an  affected,  brilliant,  sparkling  manner. 
Locke's  Treatise  on  Human  Understanding  is  a  mo- 
del of  a  clear  and  distinct  philosophical  style.  In 
the  writings  of  Shaftsbury,  on  the  other  hand,  phi 
losophy  is  dressed  up  with  too  much  ornament  and 
finery. 

Among  the  ancients,  philosophical  writing  often 
assumed  the  form  of  dialogue.  Plato  is  eminent  for 
the  beauty  of  his  dialogues.  In  richness  of  imagina- 
tion, no  philosophic  writer,  ancient  or  modern,  is 
equal  to  him.     His  only  fault  is  the  excessive  fer- 


What  are  the  subjects  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  is  the  professed  design  of  philosophy  ? — With  the  philoso- 
pher, what  are  inferior  object<  ? — What  is  said  of  them  ? 

What  beyond  mere  perspicuity  are  required  in  a  philosophical 
writer  ? — Philosophical  writing  admits  what  style  ? — Rejects  what? 
— What  is  said  of  several  eminent  writers  ? 

What  form  did  philosophical  writing  assume  among  the  ancients  ? 
«— Wha<-  are  the  characteristic  marks  of  writers  in  this  style  ? 


EPISTOLARY  TVFJTIXa. 


197 


tilitv  of  liis  imagination,  whieli  sometimes  obsciu'es. 
His  judgment,  and  frequently  carries  liim  into  allego- 
ry, fiction,  enthusiasm,  and  tiie  airy  regions  of  mvsti- 
cal  theology.  Cicero's  dialogues  are  not  so  spirited 
and  characteristical  as  those  of  Plato.  They  are, 
however,  agreealjle,  and  AveU  supported  ;  and  show 
us  conversation,  carried  on  among  some  principal 
persons  of  ancient  Rome,  with  freedom,  good  breed- 
ing, and  chgnity.  Of  the  light  and  humorous  dia- 
logue, Lucian  is  a  moi;lel ;  and  he  has  been  imitated 
by  several  modern  writers.-  Fontenelle  has  written 
dialogues,  which  are  sprightly  and  agreeable ;  but  his 
characters,  whoever  his  per-onagts  be,  all  become 
Frenchmen.  The  divine  dialogues  of  Dr.  Henry  More, 
amid  the  academic  stitfness  of  the  age,  are  often  re- 
markable fjr  character  and  vivacity.  Bishop  Berk- 
ley s  dialogues  are  abstract,  yet  perspicuous. 

EPISTOLARY  TVRITIXG. 

Ix  epistolary  writing  we  expect  ease  and  fomiliaii- 
ty  ;  and  much  of  its  charm  depends  on  its  introdu- 
cing us  into  some  acquaintance  with  the  writer.  Its 
fundamental  requisites  are  nature  and  simplicity, 
sprightliness  and  wit.  The  style  of  letters,  like  that 
of  conversation,  should  liow  easily.  It  ought  to  be 
neat  and  correct,  but  no  more.  Cicero's  epistles  are 
the  most  valuable  coUection  of  letters  extant,  in  any 
language.  They  are  composed  with  purity  and  ele- 
gance, but  without  the  least  atiectation.  Several  let- 
ters of  Lord  Bolingbroke  and  of  Bishop  Atterbury 
are  masterly.  In  those  of  Pope  there  is  generally  too 
much  study  ;  and  his  letters  to  ladies,  in  particular, 
are  fuU  of  affectation.  Those  of  Swifi  and  Arbuth- 
not  are  written  with  ease  and  simphcity.  Of  a  fa- 
mihar  correspondence,  the  most  accomplished  model 


What  is  expected  in  epistolary  writing  ^ — What  are  its  funda- 
mental requisites  ? — What  is  said  of  the  style  of  letters  ? — What  au« 

17* 


198 


FICTITIOUS  HISTORY. 


are  the  letters  of  Madame  de  Sevigne.  They  are 
easy,  varied,  lively,  and  beautiful.  The  letters  of 
Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague  are,  perhaps,  mora 
agreeable  to  the  epistolary  style,  than  any  in  the 
English  language. 

FICTITIOUS  HISTORY. 

This  species  of  composition  includes  a  very  nu 
merous,  and,  in  general,  a  very  insignificant  class  of 
writings,  called  romances  and  novels.  Of  these,  how- 
ever, the  influence  is  known  to  be  great,  both  on  the 
morals  and  taste  of  a  nation.  Notwithstanding  the 
bad  ends  to  which  this  mode  of  writing  is  apphed,  it 
might  be  employed  for  very  useful  purposes.  Ro 
mances  and  novels  describe  human  life  and  manners, 
and  discover  the  errors  into  which  we  are  betrayed  by 
the  passions.  Wise  men  in  all  ages  have  used  fables 
and  fictions  as  vehicles  of  knowledge :  and  it  is  an 
observation  of  Lord  Bacon,  that  the  common  aftairs 
of  the  world  are  insufficient  to  fill  the  mind  of  man. 
He  must  create  worlds  of  his  own,  and  wander  in  the 
regions  of  imagination. 

All  nations  whatsoever  have  discovered  a  love  of 
fiction,  and  talents  for  invention.  The  Indians,  Per- 
sians, and  Arabians  abounded  in  fables  and  parables. 
Among  the  Greeks,  we  hear  of  the  Ionian  and  Mi- 
lesian tales.  During  the  dark  ages,  fiction  assumed 
an  unusual  form,  from  the  prevalence  of  chivalry. 
Romances  arose,  and  carried  the  marvellous  to  its 
summit.  Their  knights  were  patterns  not  only  of 
the  most  heroic  courage,  but  of  religion,  generosity 
courtesy,  and  fidelity  ;  and  the  heroines  were  no  less 


thors  have  been  celebrated  for  their  excellencies  in  this  species  of 
writing  ? 

What  is  included  in  the  species  of  composition  styled  fictitioui 
history  ? — Said  of  romances  and  novels  ? 

All  nations  have  discovered  what  ? — Who  abound  in  fables  and 
parables  ? — Said  of  chivalerian  romances  ? 


FICTITIOUS  HISTORY. 


190 


distinguislied  for  modesty,  delicacy,  and  dignity  of 
manners.  Of  these  romances,  the  most  perfect  mo- 
del is  the  Orlando  Fmioso.  But  as  magic  and  en- 
chantment came  to  be  disbelieved  and  lidicnled,  the 
chivalerian  romances  were  discontinued,  and  were 
succeeded  by  a  new  species  of  fictitious  writing. 

Of  the  second  stage  of  romance  writing,  the  Cleo- 
patra of  Madame  Seuderi,  and  the  Arcadia  of  Sir 
Philip  Sydney,  are  good  examples.  In  these,  how- 
ever, there  was  still  too  large  a  proportion  of  the  mar- 
vellous ;  and  the  books  were  too  voluminous  and  te- 
dious. Romance  writing  appeared,  therefore,  in  a 
new  form,  and  dwindled  down  to  the  familiar  novel. 
Interesting  situations  in  real  life  are  the  groundwork 
of  novel  writing.  Upon  this  plan,  the  French  have 
produced  some  works  of  considerable  merit.  Such 
are  the  Gil  Bias  of  Le  Sage,  and  the  Marianne  of 
Mavrivaux. 

In  this  mode  of  writing  the  English  are  inferior  to 
the  French  ;  yet  in  this  kind  there  are  some  perform- 
ances which  discover  the  strength  of  the  British  ge- 
nius. No  fiction  was  ever  better  supported  than  the 
adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe.  Fielding's  novels 
are  highly  distinguished  for  humour  and  boldness  of 
character.  Richardson,  the  author  of  Clarissa,  is  the 
most  moral  of  all  our  novel  writers  ;  but  he  possesses 
the  unfortunate  talent  of  spinning  out  pieces  of  amuse- 
ment into  an  immeasurable  length.  The  trivial  per- 
formances which  daily  appear  under  the  title  of  hves, 
adventures,  and  histories,  by  anonymous  authors,  are 
most  insipid,  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  often  tend  to 
deprave  the  morals,  and  to  encourage  dissipation  and 
idleness. 


Wtat  are  good  examples  in  the  pecond  stage  of  romance  •nriting  ? 
— W  hat  is  said  of  them  ? — What  is  the  groundwork  of  novel  writ- 
ing ? 

What  authors  are  distinguished  in  this  kind  of  writing  ? — "What  if 
said  of  those  productions  of  this  kind  which  daily  appear 


[  200  ] 


LECTURE  XXXIII. 

NATURE  OF  POETRY.— ITS  ORIGIN  AND  PRO- 
GRESS.—VERSIFICATION.  ^ 

What,  it  may  be  asked,  is  poetry?  and  how  do^ 
it  differ  from  prose  ?  Many  disputes  have  been  main- 
tained among  critics  upon  these  questions.  The  es- 
sence of  poetry  is  supposed  by  Aristotle,  Plato,  and 
others,  to  consist  in  fiction.  But  this  is  too  hmited 
a  description.  Many  think  the  characteristic  of  po- 
etry lies  in  imitation.  But  imitation  of  manners  and 
characters  may  be  carried  on  in  prose,  as  well  as  in 
poetry. 

Perhaps  the  best  definition  is  this,  "  poetry  is  the 
language  of  passion,  or  of  enlivened  imagination, 
formed  most  commonly  into  regular  iiumbers."  As 
the  primary  object  of  a  poet  is  to  please  and  to  move, 
it  is  to  the  imagination  and  the  passions  that  he  ad- 
dresses himsell".  It  is  by  pleasing  and  moving,  that 
he  aims  to  instruct  and  reform. 

Poetry  is  older  than  prose.  In  the  beginning  of  so- 
ciety there  were  occasions,  upon  which  men  met  to- 
gether for  feasts  and  sacrifices,  when  music,  dancing, 
and  songs,  were  the  chief  entertainment.  The  meet- 
ings of  American  tribes  are  distinguished  by  music 
and  songs.  In  songs,  they  celebrate  tlieir  religious 
rites  and  martial  achievements  ;  and  in  such  songs  wo 
ti-ace  the  beginning  of  poetic  composition. 

Man  is  by  nature  both  a  poet  and  musician.  The 
same  impulse  which  produced  a  poetic  style,  prompted 
a  certain  melody  or  modulation  of  sound,  suited  to  the 


What  are  the  subjects  of  this  lecture  ? 
Aristotle  and  Plato  supposed  what  ? — Many  think  what  ? 
What  is  the  best  definition  of  poetry  ?— What  is  a  poet's  primary 
object  ? — To  what  does  he  address  himself? 
Is  poetry  older  than  prose  ? — IIow  is  this  accounted  for  ? 


ENGLISH  VERSIFICATION. 


201 


emotions  of  joy  or  grief,  love  or  anger.  Music  and 
poetry  are  united  in  song,  and  mutually  assist  and 
exalt  each  other.  The  first  poets  sung  their  own 
verses.  Hence  the  origin  of  versification,  or  the  ar- 
rangement of  words  to  tune  or  melody. 

Poets  and  songs  are  the  first  objects  that  make  their 
appearance  in  all  nations.  Apollo,  Orpheus  and  Am 
phion,  were  the  first  tamers  of  mankind  among  the 
Greeks.  The  Gothic  nations  had  their  scalders,  or 
poets.  The  Celtic  tribes  had  their  bards.  Poems  and 
songs  are  among  the  antiquities  of  all  countries  ;  and, 
as  the  occasions  of  their  being  composed  are  nearly 
the  same,  so  they  remarkably  resemble  each  other  in 
style.  They  comprise  the  celebration  of  gods,  and 
heroes,  and  victories.  They  abound  in  fire  and  en- 
thusiasm ;  as  they  are  wild,  irregular,  and  glowing. 

During  the  infancy  of  poetry,  all  its  difterent  kinds 
were  mingled  in  the  same  composition ;  but  in  the 
progress  of  society,  poems  assumed  their  difterent  reg- 
ular forms.  Time  separated  into  classes  the  several 
kinds  of  poetic  composition.  The  ode,  and  the  elegy,  J 
the  epic  poem  and  the  drama,  are  all  reduced  to  rule,  \ 
and  exercise  the  acuteness  of  criticism. 

ENGLISH  VERSIFICATION. 

Nations,  whose  language  and  pronunciation  were 
musical,  rested  their  versification  chiefly  on  the  quan- 
tities of  their  syllables ;  but  mere  quantity  has  very 
little  eflfect  in  English  verse.  For  the  difterence  made 
between  long  and  short  syllables,  in  our  manner  of 
pronouncing  them,  is  very  inconsiderable. 


Whence  the  origin  of  versification  ? 

W  hat  objects  first  make  their  appearance  in  all  nations  ? — ^What 
is  said  of  the  poets  among  the  ancients  ? 

What  is  said  of  poetry  in  its  infancy  ? — What  has  time  ione  ? 

Who  rested  their  versification  chiefly  on  the  quantities  Oi  their 
syllables  ? — Has  mere  quantity  much  effect  in  English  verse  ?— 
Why  ? 


202 


ENGLISH  VERSIFICATION. 


The  only  perceptible  difference  among  our  sylla' 
bles,  arises  from  that  strong  percussion  of  voice,  which 
is  termed  accent.  This  accent,  however,  does  not 
always  make  the  syllable  longer,  but  only  gives  it 
more  force  of  sound  ;  and  it  is  rather  upon  a  certain 
order  and  succession  of  accented  and  unaccented  syl 
lables,  tb«n  upon  theu-  quantity,  that  the  melody  of 
our  verse  depends. 

In  the  constitution  of  our  verse,  there  is  another  es 
sential  circumstance.  This  is  the  cesural  pause,  which 
falls  near  the  middle  of  each  line.  This  pause  may 
fall  after  the  fourth,  fifth,  sixth,  or  seventh  syllable ; 
and,  by  this  means,  uncommon  variety  and  richness 
are  added  to  English  versification. 

Our  Enghsh  verse  is  of  Iambic  structure,  composed 
of  a  neai-ly  alternate  succession  of  unaccented  and  ac- 
cented syllables.  When  the  pause  falls  earliest,  that 
is,  after  the  fourth  syllable,  the  briskest  melody  is 
thereby  formed.  Of  this  the  following  lines  from 
Pope  are  a  happy  illustration  : 

On  her  white  breast  |  a  sparkUng  cross  she  wore, 
Which  Jews  might  kiss  i  and  infidels  adore  ; 
Her  lively  looks  |  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 
Quick,  as  her  eyes,  |  and  as  unfix'd  as  those, 
Favours  to  none,  |  to  all  she  smiles  extends, 
Oft  she  rejects,  |  but  Aever  once  offends. 

When  the  pause  falls  after  the  fifth  syllable,  divid- 
ing the  fine  into  two  equal  portions,  the  melody  is  sen- 
sibly altered.    The  verse,  losing  the  brisk  air  of  th 
former  pause,  becomes  more  smooth  and  flowing. 

Eternal  sunshine  [  of  the  spotless  mind, 

Each  prayer  accepted,  |  and  each  wish  resign'd. 


Whence  arises  the  perceptible  difference  among  our  syllables  ? — 
What  is  said  of  accent  ? 

What  is  another  essential  circumstance  in  the  constitution  of  our 
verse  ? — This  pause  may  fall  where  ? 

What  is  the  structure  of  our  English  verse  ? — How  is  it  composed? 
— What  is  the  effect  when  the  pause  falls  after  the  fourth  syllable  ? 
— Cite  the  illustration. 

The  effect,  when  the  pause  falls  after  the  fifth  syllable  ?— The  illus- 
tration * 


ENGLISH  VERSIFICATION. 


203 


When  tlie  pause  follows  the  sixth  syllable,  the  me- 
lody becomes  grave.  The  movement  of  the  verse  is 
more  solemn  and  measured. 

The  wrath  of  Peleus'  son  |  the  direful  spring 
Of  all  the  Grecian  woes,  )  0,  goddess,  sing. 

The  grave  cadence  becomes  still  more  sensible  wlien 
the  pause  follows  the  seventh  syllable.  This  kind  of 
verse,  however,  seldom  occurs  ;  and  its  effect  is  to  di- 
versify the  melody. 

And  in  the  smooth,  descriptive  |  murmur  stUl, 
Long  lov'd,  ador'd  ideas,  |  all  adieu. 

Our  blank  verse  is  a  noble,  bold,  and  disencum- 
bered mode  of  versification.  It  is  free  from  the  full 
close  which  rhyme  forces  upon  the  ear  at  the  end  of 
every  couplet.  Hence  it  is  peculiarly  suited  to  sub- 
jects of  dignity  and  force.  It  is  more  favourable  than 
rhyme  to  the  sublime  and  highly  pathetic.  It  is  the 
most  proper  for  an  epic  poem,  and  for  tragedy. 
Rhyme  finds  its  proper  place  in  the  middle  regions  of 
poetry  ;  and  blank  verse  in  the  highest. 

The  present  form  of  our  English  heroic  rhyme,  in 
couplets,  is  modern.  The  measure  used  in  the  days 
of  Elizabeth,  James,  and  Charles  I.  was  the  stanza  of 
eight  fines.  Waller  was  the  first  who  introduced 
couplets;  and  Dryden  estabfished  the  usage.  Wal- 
ler smoothed  our  verse,  and  Dryden  perfected  it. 
The  versification  of  Pope  is  pecufiar.  It  is  flowing, 
smooth,  and  correct,  in  the  highest  degree.  He  has 
totally  thrown  aside  the  triplets  so  common  in  Dry- 
den. In  ease  and  variety,  Dryden  excels  Pope.  He 
frequently  makes  his  couplets  run  into  one  another, 
with  somewhat  of  the  freedom  of  blank  verse. 


What  is  the  effect  when  the  pause  follows  the  sixth  syllable  ? — The 
illustration  ? 

The  effect  when  the  pause  follows  the  seventh  syllable  ? 
What  is  said  of  our  blank  verse  ? 

What  is  modern  ? — When  was  the  stanza  of  eight  lines  use<3  ?— 
Whit  is  said  of  Waller,  and  other  poets  ^ 


L  204  1 

LECTURE  XXXIV. 
PASTORAL  POETRY. 

It  was  not  before  men  had  begun  to  assemble  in 
great  cities,  and  the  bustle  of  courts  and  large  socie- 
ties was  known,  that  pastoral  poetry  assumed  its  pre- 
/sent  form.  From  the  tumult  of  a  city  life,  men  lopk- 
<  ed  back  with  complacency  to  the  innocence  of  ^ural 
retirement.  In  the  court  of  Ptolemy,  Theocritus 
wrote  the  first  pastorals  with  which  we  are  acquaint- 
ed ;  and  in  the  court  of  Augustus,  Virgil  imitated  him. 

The  pastoral  is  a  very  agreeable  species  of  poetry. 
It  lays  before  us  the  gay  and  pleasing  scenes  of 
nature.  It  recalls  objects  which  are  commonly  the 
delight  of  our  childhood  and  youth.  It  exhibits  a 
life  with  which  we  associate  ideas  of  innocence,  peace, 
and  leisure.  It  transports  us  into  Elysian  regions. 
It  presents  many  objects  favourable  to  poetry  ;  rivers 
and  mountains,  meadows  and  hills,  rocks  and  trees, 
flocks  and  shepherds  void  of  care. 

A  pastoral  poet  is  careful  to  exhibit  whatever  is 
most  pleasing  in  the  pastoral  state.  He  paints  its 
simplicity,  tranquillity,  innocence,  and  happiness ;  but 
conceals  its  rudeness  and  misery.  If  his  pictures 
be  not  those  of  real  life,  they  must  resemble  it.  This 
is  a  general  idea  of  pastoral  poetry.  But  to  under- 
stand it  more  perfectly,  let  us  consider,  1st.  The 
scenery ;  2d.  The  characters ;  and,  lastly,  The  subjects 
it  should  exhibit. 

The  scene  must  always  be  in  the  country ;  and  the 
poet  must  have  a  talent  for  description.  In  this  re- 
spect, Virgil  is  excelled  by  Theocritus,  whose  descrip- 
tions are  richer  and  more  picturesque.    In  every  pas- 

What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

When  did  pastoral  poetry  assume  its  present  form  ? — The  reason  T 
What  are  the  characteristics  of  pastoral  poetry  ? 
\  pastoral  poet  is  careful  to  do  what  ? 


PASTORAL  POETRY. 


205* 


toral,  a  rural  prospect  should  be  drawn,  with  distinct- 
ness. It  is  not  enough  to  have  unmeaning  groups 
of  roses  and  violets,  of  birds,  breezes,  and  brooks 
thrown  together.  A  good  poet  gives  such  a  landscape 
as  a  painter  might  copy.  His  objects  are  particu- 
larized. The  stream,  the  rock,  or  the  tree  so  stands 
forth,  as  to  make  a  figure  in  the  imagination,  and 
give  a  pleasing  conception  of  the  place  where  we  are. 

In  his  allusions  to  natural  objects,  as  well  as  in  pro- 
fessed descriptions  of  the  scenery,  the  poet  must  study 
variety.  He  must  diversify  his  face  of  nature  by 
presenting  us  new  images.  He  must  also  suit  the 
scenery  to  the  subject  of  his  pastoral ;  and  exhibit 
nature  under  such  forms  as  may  correspond  with  the 
emotions  and  sentiments  he  describes.  Thus  Virgil, 
w^hen  he  gives  the  lamentation  of.  a  despairing  lover, 
communicates  a  gloom  to  the  scene. 

Tantum  inter  densas,  umbrosa  cacumina,  fagos, 
Assidue  yeniebat  ;  ibi  bee  incondita  solus 
Montibus  et  sylvis  studio  jactabat  inani. 

With  regard  to  the  characters  in  pastorals,  it  is  not 
sufficient  that  they  be  persons  residing  in  the  country. 
Courtiers  and  citizens,  who  resort  thither  occasional- 
ly, are  not  the  characters  expected  in  pastorals.  We 
expect  to  be  entertained  by  shepherds,  or  persons 
wholly  engaged  in  rural  occupations.  The  shepherd 
must  be  plain  and  unaffected  in  his  mAner  of  think- 
ing. An  amiable  simplicity  must  be  the  groundwork 
of  his  character ;  though  there  is  no  necessity  for  his 
being  dull  and  insipid.  He  may  have  good  sense  and 
even  vivacity  ;  tender  and  dehcate  feelings.  But  he 
must  never  deal  in  general  reflections,  or  abstract  rea- 
sonings ;  nor  in  conceits  of  gallantry,  for  these  are 
consequences  of  refinement.    When  Aminta  in  Tasso 


Where  must  be  the  scene  ? — What  talent  must  the  poet  have  ?— 
What  is  said  of  a  good  poet  ? 

What  must  the  poet  study  ? — What  must  he  do  ? 

What  is  the  proper  description  of  characters  in  pastoral  poetry  T 

18 


206 


PASTORAL  POETRY. 


is  disentangling  his  mistress's  hair  from  the  tree  to 
which  a  savage  had  bound  it,  he  is  made  to  say, 
Cruel  tree,  how  couldst  thou  injure  that  lovely  hair, 
which  did  thee  so  much  honour  ?  Thy  rugged  trunk 
was  not  worthy  of  so  lovely  knots.  What  advantage 
have  the  servants  of  love,  if  those  precious  chains  are 
common  to  them  and  to  trees  ?"  Strained  sentiments 
like  these  suit  not  the  woods.  The  lano-uajre  of  rural 
personages  is  that  of  plain  sense  and  natural  feeling; 
as  in  the  following  beautiful  lines  of  Virgil : 

Sepibus  in  nostris  parvam  te  roscida  mala 
(Dmx  ego  Tester  eram)  vidi  cum  matre  legentem, 
Alter  ab  undecimo  tum  me  jam  ceperat  annus, 
Jam  fragiles  poteram  a  terra  contingere  ramods. 
TJt  vidi,  ut  peril,  ut  me  malus  abstulit  error  ! 

The  next  inquiry  is,  what  are  the  proper  subjects 
of  pastorals  ?  For  it  is  not  enough  that  the  poet  give 
us  shepherds  discoursing  together.  Every  good  poem 
has  a  subject  that  in  some  way  interests  us.  In  this 
lies  the  difficulty  of  pastoral  writing.  The  active 
scenes  of  country  life  are  too  barren  of  incidents. 
The  condition  of  a  shepherd  has  few  things  in  it  that 
excite  curiosity  or  surprise.  Hence  of  all  poems  the 
pastoral  is  most  meagre  in  subject,  and  least  diversified 
in  strain.  Yet  this  defect  is  not  to  be  ascribed  solely 
to  barrenness  of  subjects.  It  is  in  a  great  measure 
the  fault  of  the  poet.  For  human  nature  and  human 
passions  are  much  the  same  in  every  situation  and 
rank  of  life.  What  a  variety  of  objects  within  the 
rural  sphere  do  the  passions  present !  The  struggles 
and  ambition  of  shepherds ;  their  adventures ;  their 
disquiet  and  felicity ;  the  rivalship  of  lovers ;  unex- 
pected successes  and  disasters  ;  are  all  proper  subjects 
for  the  pastoral  muse. 

Theocritus  and  Virgil  are  the  two  great  fathers  of 
pastoral  writing.    For  simplicity  of  sentiment,  har- 

What  are  the  proper  subjects  of  pastorals  ? 

Who  are  the  fathers  of  pastoral  writing? — Give  the  excellencies 
if  Theocritus  and  Virgil. 


PASTORAL  POETRF. 


20"/ 


mony  of  numbers,  and  ricliness  of  sceneiy,  tlie  former 
is  liigiily  distinguisliecl.  But  lie  sometimes  descends 
to  ideas  that  are  gross  and  mean,  and  makes  liis  shep- 
herds  abusive  and  immodest.  -Vii-gil,  on  the  conti-ary, 
preserves  the  pastoral  simplicity  without  any  offensive 
rusticity. 

Modern  writers  of  pastorals  have,  in  general,  imi 
tated  the  ancient  poets.  Sannazarius,  however,  a 
Latin  poet,  in  the  age  of  Leo  X.,  attempted  a  bold 
inno^•ation,  by  composing  piscatory  eclogues,  and 
chanoino^  the  scene  from  the  wood  to  the  sea,  and  the 
characters  from  shepherds  to  fishermen.  But  the  at- 
tempt was  so  unhappy  that  he  has  nofoUowers.  The 
toilsome  life  of  fishermen  has  nothing  agTeeable  to 
present  to  the  imagination.  Fishes  and  marine  pro- 
ductions have  nothing  poetical  in  them.  Of  all  the 
moderns,  Gesner,  a  poet  of  Switzerland,  has  been  the 
most  happy  in  pastoral  composition.  Many  new 
ideas  are  introduced  in  his  Idyls.  His  scenery  is 
striking,  and  his  descriptions  lively.  He  is  pathetic, 
and  writes  to  the  heart.  Neither  the  pastorals  of 
Pope,  nor  of  Philips,  do  much  honour  to  English 
poetry.  The  pastorals  of  Pope  are  baiTcn ;  their 
chief  merit  is  the  smoothness  of  the  numbers. 
Philips  attempted  to  be  more  simple  and  natural  than 
Pope;  but  wanted  genius  to  support  the  attempt. 
His  topics,  hke  those  of  Pope,  are  beaten  ;  and,  instead 
of  being  natm-al  or  simple,  he  is  flat  and  insipid. 
Shenstone's  pastoral  ballad  is  one  of  the  most  elegant 
poems  of  the  kind  in  the  English  language. 

In  latter  times,  pastoral  writing  has  been  extended 
into  regular  ch-ama;  and  this  is  the  chief  improve- 


What  have  modern  -writers  of  pastorals  done  ? — What  did  san- 
nazarius attempt  ? — What  is  said  of  the  attempt  ? — Who,  among  mod- 
erns, has  been  the  most  happy  in  pastoral  composition  ? — What  la 
gaid  of  his  productions  ? — What  is  said  of  the  pastorals  of  Pope, 
Philips  and  Shenstone  ? 

What  improvement  have  the  moderns  made  in  pastoral  writirg  ? 
— ^What  is  said  of  the  pieces  of  Guarini  and  Tasso  .' 


208 


LYRIC  POETRY. 


ment  the  moderns  have  made  in  it.  Two  pieces  of  this 
kind  are  highly  celebrated,  Guarini's  Pastor  Fido,  and 
Tasso's  Aminta.  Both  possess  great  beauties  ;  but 
the  latter  is  the  preferable  poem,  because  less  intricate 
and  less  affected  ;  though  not  wholly  free  from  Italian 
refinement.  As  a  poem,  however,  it  has  great  merit 
The  poetry  is  pleasing  and  gentle,  and  the  Italian  Ian 
guage  confers  on  it  much  of  that  softness,  which  is 
suited  to  the  pastoral. 

The  Gentle  Shepherd  of  Allan  Ramsay  is  a  pasto- 
ral drama,  which  will  bear  comparison  with  any  com- 
position of  the  kind  in  any  language.  To  this  admi- 
I'able  poem,  it  is  a  disadvantage  that  it  is  written  in 
the  old  rustic  dialect  of  Scotland,  which  must  soon  be 
obsolete ;  and  it  is  a  farther  disadvantage,  that  it  is 
formed  so  entirely  on  the  rural  manners  of  Scotland, 
that  none,  but  a  native  of  that  country,  can  thoroughly 
understand  and  relish  it.  It  is  full  of  natural  descrip- 
tion, and  excels  in  tenderness  of  sentiment.  The  cha- 
racters are  well  drawn,  the  incidents  affecting,  the 
scenery  and  manners  hvely  and  just. 

LYRIC  POETRY.  ' 

The  ode  is  a  species  of  poetry  which  has  much 
digiiity,  and  in  which  many  writers  in  every  age  have 
distinguished  themselves.  Ode  in  Greek  is  the  same 
with  song  or  hymn  ;  and  lyric  poetry  implies,  that 
the*  verses  are  accompanied  with  a  lyre  or  musical 
instrument.  In  the  ode,  poetry  retains  its  first  form 
and  its  original  union  with  music.  Sentiments  com- 
monly constitute  its  subject.  It  recites  not  actions, 
Its  spirit  and  the  manner  of  its  execution  mark  its 
character.    It  admits  a  bolder  and  more  passionate 


Wha'i.  is  said  of    The  Gentle  Shepherd"  of  Allan  Ramsay  ? 

The  ode  is  what  ?— What  is  implied  by  lyric  poetry  ?— What  com- 
monly constitute  the  subject  of  an  ode  .'— VV^hat  mark  the  character! 
»f  the  ode  f 


LYRIC  POETRY. 


209 


strain  than  is  allowed  in  simple  recital.  Hence  thfl 
enthusiasm  that  belongs  to  it.  Hence  that  neglect  of 
regularity,  those  digressions,  and  that  disorder  it  is 
supposed  to  admit. 

Ah  odes  may  be  classed  under  four  denominations. ' 
1.  Hymns  addi'essed  to  God,  or  composed  on  reh-- 
gious  subjects.  2.  Heroic  odes,  which  concern  the 
celebration  of  heroes,  and  great  actions.  3.  Moral 
and  philosophical  odes,  which  refer  chiefly  to  vhtue, 
friendship,  and  humanity.  4.  Festive  and  amorou3 
odes,  which  are  calculated  merely  for  amusement  and 
pleasure. 

Enthusiasm  being  considered  as  the  characteiistic 
of  the  ode,  it  has  often  degenerated  into  licentious- 
ness. This  species  of  writing  has,  above  aU  others, 
been  infected  by  want  of  order,  method,  and  connex- 
ion. The  poet  is  out  of  sight  in  a  moment.  He  is 
so  abrupt  and  eeoentrie,  so  hregular  and  obscure,  that 
we  cannot  foUow  him.  It  is  not  indeed  necessai-y 
that  the  structure  of  the  ode  be  so  perfectly  regtilar  as 
an  epic  poein.  But  in  every  composition  there  ought 
to  be  a  whole  ;  and  this  whole  should  consist  of  con- 
nected paits.  The  ti'ansition  fi'om  thought  to  thought 
may  be  light  and  dehcate,  but  the  connexion  of  ideas 
should  be  preserved  ;  the  author  shotild  thmk,  and 
not  rave. 

Pindar,  the  father  of  lyric  poetry,  has  led  his  imi-  >  s*- 

tators  into  enthusiastic  wildness.     They  hnitate  his  - 
disorder,  without  catchiug  his  sphit.     In  Horace's 
odes  every  thing  is  coiTCCt,  harmonious,  and  happy. 
His  elevation  is  moderate,  not  rapturotis.    Grace  andj. 
elegance  are  his  chai-acteristics.    He  supports  a  mora] 


Odes  may  be  classed  under  how  many  denoininatioiis  ? — What  ar? 
they  ? 

What  is  considered  the  characteristic  of  the  ode? — With  what 
faults  has  this  species  of  \rriting  been  infected  ? — ^What  should  there 
be  in  every  composition  ? 

Who  "vras  the  father  of  lyric  poetry  ? — What  has  he  done  ? — What 
i5  said  of  his  imitators  ?---What  of  Horace  and  his  odes  ? 

18^ 


210 


DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


Rentiraent  with  dignity,  touches  a  gay  one  with  feli 
city,  and  has  the  art  of  trifling  most  agreeably.  His 
language,  too,  is  most  fortunate. 

Many  Latin  poets  of  later  ages  have  imitated  him. 
Cassimer,  a  Polish  poet  of  the  last  century,  is  of  this 
number ;  and  discovers  a  considerable  degree  of  ori- 
ginal genius  and  poetic  fire.  He  is,  however,  far  in- 
ferior to  the  Roman  in  graceful  expression.  Bucha- 
nan, in  some  of  his  lyric  compositions,  is  very  elegant 
and  classical. 

In  our  own  language,  Dryden's  ode  on  St.  Cecilia 
is  well  known.  Mr.  Gray,  in  some  of  his  odes,  is 
celebrated  for  tenderness  and  sublimity ;  and  in 
Dodsley's  Miscellanies  are  several  very  beautiful  lyric 
poems.  Professedly  Pindaric  odes  are  seldom  intelli- 
gible. Cowley  is  doubly  harsh  in  his  Pindaric  com- 
positions. His  Anacreonic  odes  are  h^jppier  ;  and, 
perhaps,  most  agi-eeable  and  perfect  in  their  kind  of 
all  his  poems. 


LECTURE  XXXV. 
DIDACTIC  POETRY. 

Of  didactic  poetry,  it  is  the  express  intention  to 
convey  instruction  and  knowledge.  It  may  be  exe- 
cuted in  diflerent  ways.  The  poet  may  treat  some 
instructive  subject  in  a  regular  form,  or,  without  in- 
tending a  gi'eat  or  regular  work,  he  may  inveigh 


By  whom  has  Horace  been  imitated  ? — What  is  said  of  Cassimer 
and  Buchanan  ? 
What  is  said  of  the  odes  in  our  own  language  ? 

What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  is  the  intention  of  didactic  poetry  ? — In  what  ways  may  it 
be  executed  ? 


DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


211 


against  particular  vices,  or  make  some  moral  observa- 
tions on  human  life  and  characters. 

The  highest  species  of  didactic  poetry  is  a  regular 
treatise  on  some  philosophical,  grave,  or  useful  subject 
Such  are  the  books  of  Lucretius  "de  Rerum  Natura, 
the  Georgics  of  Virgil,  Pope's  Essay  on  Criticism, 
A-kenside's  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,  Armstrong 
on  Health,  and  the  Art  of  Poetry,  by  Horace,  Vida, 
-iud  Boileau. 

In  all  such  works,  as  instruction  is  the  professed 
object,  the  chief  merit  consists  in  sound  thought,  just 
piinciples,  and  apf  illustrations.  It  is  necessary,  how- 
ever, that  the  poet  enliven  his  lessons  by  figures,  inci- 
aents,  and  poetical  painting.  Virgil,  in  his  Georgics, 
fcmbeilishes  the  most  trivial  circumstances  in  rural  life. 
'^hen  he  teaches  that  the  labour  of  the  farmer  must 
begin  in  spring,  he  expresses  himself  thus  : 

■Vei«*  rovv'  gcUd^JS  canis  cum  montibus  humor 
Liquitur,  et  Zephyro  putris  se  gleba  resolvit ; 
DsptPs^o  lacipiate  jam  turn  mihi  Taurus  aratro 
Ingamsre,  £t  sulec  attritus  splendescere  vomer. 

Iri  h\\  didactic  works  such  method  is  requisite,  as 
will  Clearly  exhibit  a  connected  train  of  instruction. 
With  legard  to  episodes  and  embelhshments,  writers 
of  didactic  poetry  are  indulged  great  liberties  :  for  in 
a  poetical  perform ance,  a  continued  series  of  instruc- 
tion, without  embelhshment,  soon  fatigues.  The  hap- 
piness of  a  country  life,  the  fable  of  Aristeus,  and  the 
tale  of  Orpheus  and  Eu/ydice,  cannot  be  praised  too 
much. 

A  didactic  poet  ought  abo  to  connect  his  episodes 
with  his  subject.    In  this,^  Yhgil  is  eminent.  Among 


What  is  the  highest  species  ot  itiwli®  poetry  ? — What  works  ar« 
of  this  character  ? 

In  such  works  the  chief  merit  ccnnrta  in  what  ? — What  is  neces- 
eary  ? — What  is  said  of  Virgil  ? 

What  method  is  necessary  in  didactic  works  ? — What  is  said  of 
episodes  and  embellishments  ? 

A  didactic,  poet  ought  to  do  what  ? — WTvo  are  distinguished  among 
modern  didactic  poets  ? — What  is  said  of  t^em  2 


212 


DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


modern  didactic  poets,  Akenside  and  Armstrong  are 
distinguished.  The  former  is  rich  and  poetical ;  but 
the  latter  maintains  greater  equality,  and  more  chaste 
and  correct  eloquence. 

Of  didactic  poetry,  satires  and  epistles  run  in  th 
most  familiar  style.     Satire  seems  to  have  been  a 
first  a  relic  of  ancient  comedy,  the  grossness  of  whicl 
was  corrected  by  Ennius  and  Lucilius.    At  length 
Horace  brought  it  into  its  present  form.  Reformatioi 
of  manners  is  its  professed  end  ;  and  vice  and  vicioua 
characters  are  the  objects  of  its  censure.    There  are 
three  different  modes  in  which  it  has  been  conducted 
by  the  three  great  ancient  satirists,  Horace,  Juvenal, 
and  Persius. 

The  satires  of  Horace  have  not  much  elevation. 
They  exhibit  a  measured  prose.  Ease  and  grace 
characterize  his  manner ;  and  he  glances  rather  at 
the  follies  and  weaknesses  of  mankind,  than  at  their 
vices.  He  smiles  while  he  reproves.  He  moralizes 
like  a  sound  philosopher,  but  with  the  pohteness  of  a 
courtier.  Juvenal  is  more  declamatory  and  serious ; 
and  has  greater  strength  and  fire.  Persius  has  dis- 
tinguished himself  by  a  noble  and  sublime  morality. 

Poetical  epistles,  when  employed  on  moral  or  criti- 
cal subjects,  seldom  rise  into  a  higher  strain  of  poetry 
than  satires.  But  in  the  epistolary  form,  many  other 
subjects  may  be  treated ;  as  love,  poetry,  or  elegiac. 
The  ethical  epistles  of  Pope  are  a  model ;  and  in 
them  he  shows  the  strength  of  his  genius.  Here  he 
had  a  full  opportunity  for  displaying  his  judgment 
and  wit,  his  concise  and  happy  expression,  together 


What  is  said  of  satire  ? — What  is  its  end,  and  what  are  the  objects 
of  its  censure  ? — In  how  many  modes  has  it  been  conducted,  and  by 
whom  ? 

What  is  said  of  the  satires  of  Horace  ?— What  of  Juvenal  ?— Of 
Persius  ? 

What  is  observed  of  poetical  epistles,  and  the  epistolary  form  1 
— What  is  said  of  the  ethical  epistles  of  Pope,  and  his  imitations  of 
Horace  ? 


DESCRIPTIVE  POETRY. 


213 


witli  the  liarraony  of  his  numbers.  His  imitations  of 
Horace  are  so  happy,  that  it  is  difficult  to  say  whether 
the  original  or  the  copy  ought  to  be  most  admired. 

Among  moral  and  didactic  writers,  Dr.  Young- 
ought  not  to  be  passed  over  in  silence.  Genius  appeai-s 
in  all  his  works ;  but  his  Universal  Passion  may  be 
considered  as  possessing  the  full  merit  of  that  animated 
conciseness,  particularly  requisite  in  satirical  and  didac- 
tic compositions.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  to  be  ob- 
served, that  his  wit  is  often  too  sparkling,  and  Yis, 
sentences  too  pointed.  In  his  Night  Thoughts  there 
is  gi-eat  energy  of  expression,  several  pathetic  pas- 
sages, many  happy  images,  and  many  pious  reflec- 
tions. But  the  sentiments  are  frequently  overstrained 
and  turgid,  aiid  the  style  harsh  and  obscure. 

DESCRIPTIVE  POETRY. 

In  descriptive  poetry,  the  highest  exertions  of  genius 
may  be  displayed.  In  general,  indeed,  description  is 
introduced  as  an  embelhshment,  not  as  the  subject  of 
a  regular  work.  It  is  the  test  of  the  poet's  imagi- 
nation, and  always  distinguishes  an  original  from  a 
second  rate  genius.  A  writer  of  an  inferior  class  sees 
nothing  new  or  peculiar  in  the  object  he  would  paint; 
his  conceptions  are  loose  and  vague ;  and  his  expres- 
sions feeble  and  general.  A  true  poet  places  an 
object  before  our  eyes.  He  gives  it  the  colouring  of 
life  ;  a  painter  might  copy  from  him. 

The  great  art  of  picturesque  description  lies  in  the 
selection  of  circumstances.  These  ought  never  to  be 
vulgar*  or  common.    They  should  mark  strongly  the 


What  is  said  of  Dr.  Young  aad  his  works  ? 

What  may  be  displayed  in  descriptive  poetry  ? — What  is  said  of 
description  ? — Of  an  inferior  writer  ? — Of  a  true  poet  ? 

In  what  lies  the  great  art  of  picturesque  description  ? — "What  ifl 
eaid  of  these  circumstances  ? 


214 


DESCRIPTIVE  POETRY. 


object.  "No  general  description  is  good;  all  distinct 
ideas  are  formed  upon  particulars.  There  should 
also  be  uniformity  in  the  circumstances  selected.  In 
describing  a  great  object,  every  circumstance  brought 
forward  should  tend  to  aggrandize ;  and  in  describing 
a  gay  object,  all  the  circumstances  should  tend  to 
beautify  it.  Lastly,  the  cucumstances  in  description 
should  be  expressed  with  conciseness  and  simplicity. 

The  largest  and  fullest  descriptive  performance,  in 
perhaps  any  language,  is  Thomson's  Seasons  ;  a  work 
which  possesses  very  uncommon  merit.  The  style 
is  splendid  and  strong,  but  sometimes  harsh  and  indis- 
tinct. He  is  an  animated  and  beautiful  describer; 
for  he  had  a  feeling  heart,  and  a  warm  imagination. 
He  studied  nature  with  care ;  was  enamoured  of  her 
beauties ;  and  had  the  happy  talent  of  painting  them 
like  a  master.  To  show  the  power  of  a  single  well 
chosen  circumstance  in  heightening  a  description,  the 
following  passage  may  be  produced  from  his  Summer, 
-where,  relating  the  efi'ects  of  heat  in  the  torrid  zone, 
lie  is  led  to  take  notice  of  the  pestilence  that  de- 
stroyed the  Enghsh  fleet  at  Carthagena,  under  Admi- 
ral Vernon : 

 You,  gallant  Vemon,  saw 

The  miserable  scene  ;  you  pitying  saw 

To  infant  weakness  sunk  the  warrior's  arm  ; 

Saw  the  deep  racking  pang  ;  the  ghastly  form  ; 

The  lip  pale  quiTeriug,  and  the  beamless  eye 

No  more  with  ardour  bright ;  you  heard  the  groan  a 

Of  agonizing  ships  from  shore  to  shore  ; 

Heard  nightly  plung'd  amid  the  sullen  waves 

The  frequent  corse.  

All  the  circumstances  here  selected,  tend  to  heighten 
the  dismal  scene;  but  the  last  image  is  the  most 
striking  in  the  picture. 

Of  descriptive  narration,  there  are  beautiful  exam- 
ples in  Parn  ell's  Tale  of  the  Hermit.  The  setting 
forth  of  the  hermit  to  visit  the  world,  his  meeting  a 

What  ia  said  of  Thomson's  Seasons? — Give  the  passage  quoted 
from  his  works  ? — What  is  said  of  it  ? 
Where  are  beautiful  examples  of  descriptiye  narration  ? — What 


DESCRIPTIVE  POETRY. 


215 


companion,  and  the  houses  in  which  they  are  enter- 
tained, of  the  vain  man,  the  covetous  man,  and  the 
good  man,  are  pieces  of  highly  finished  painting.  But 
the  richest  and  the  most  remarkable  of  all  the  descrip- 
tive poems  in  the  English  language,  are  the  Allegro 
and  the  Penseroso  of  Milton.  They  are  the  storehouse 
whence  many  succeeding  poets  have  enriched  their 
descriptions,  and  are  inimitably  fine  poems.  Take, 
for  instance,  the  follo^ving  hues  from  the  Penseroso : 

■  1  walk  unseen 

On  the  dry,  smooth  shaven  green, 

To  behold  the  wandering  moon 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon  ; 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bow'd, 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground 

I  hear  the  far  off  curfew  sound, 

Over  some  wide  watered  shore 

Swinging  slow  Avith  solemn  roar  ; 

Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 

Some  still  removed  place  will  sit, 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom  ; 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 

Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm, 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm  ; 

Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 

lie  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 

Exploring  Plato,  to  unfold 

What  worlds,  or  what  vast  regions  hold, 

Th'  immortal  mind,  that  hath  forsook 

Her  mansion  in  this  fleshy  nook  ; 

And  of  these  demons  that  are  found 

In  fire,  in  air,  flood,  or  under  ground. 

Here  are  no  general  expressions ;  all  is  picturesque, 
expressive  and  concise.  One  strong  point  of  view  is 
exhibited  to  the  reader ;  and  the  impression  made  is 
lively  and  interesting. 

Both  Homer  and  Virgil  excel  in  poetical  descrip- 
tion. In  the  second  .^neid,  the  sacking  of  Troy  is 
so  particularly  described,  that  the  reader  finds  himself 
in  the  midst  of  the  scene.    The  death  of  Pnam  is  a 


are  they  ? — Which  are  the  richest  descriptive  poems  in  the  English 
language  ? — What  is  said  of  them  ? — Of  the  quotation  trora  the 
Penseroso  ? 

Who.  among  the  ancient  writers,  excelled  in  descriptive  poetry  ? 


216 


DESCRIPTIVE  POETRY. 


masterpiece  of  description.  Homer's  battles  are  all 
wonderful.  Ossian,  too,  paints  in  strong  colours,  and 
is  remarkable  for  touching  the  heart.  He  thus  por- 
trays the  ruins  of  Balclutha  :  "  I  have  seen  the  walls 
of  Balclutha  ;  but  they  were  desolate.  The  fire  had 
resounded  within  the  halls ;  and  the  voice  of  the 
people  is  now  heard  no  more.  The  stream  of  Clutha 
was  removed  from  its  place  by  the  fall  of  the  walls  • 
the  thistle  shook  there  its  lonely  head ;  the  moss 
whistled  to  the  wind.  The  fox  looked  out  of  the 
window ;  the  rank  grass  waved  round  his  head. 
Desolate  is  the  dwelling  of  Moina ;  silence  is  in  the 
house  of  her  fathers." 

Much  of  the  beauty  of  descriptive  poetry  depends 
upon  a  proper  choice  of  epithets.  Many  poets  are 
often  careless  in  this  particular ;  hence  the  multitude 
of  unmeaning  and  redundant  epithets.  Hence  the 
"Liquidi  Fontes"  of  Virgil,  and  the  "Prata  Canis 
Albicant  Prunis"  of  Horace.  To  observe  that  water 
is  liquid,  and  that  snow  is  white,  is  little  better  than 
mere  tautology.  Every  epithet  should  add  a  new 
idea  to  the  word  which  it  qualifies.    So  in  Milton  : 

Who  shall  tempt  with  wandering  feet 
The  dark,  utibottom'd,  infinite  abyss  ; 
And  through  the  palpable  obscure  find  out 
His  uncouth  way  ;  or  spread  his  airy  flight 
Upborne  with  indefatigable  wings, 
Over  the  vast  abrupt  ? 

The  description  here  is  strengthened  by  the  epi- 
'thets.  The  wandering  feet,  the  unbottomed  abyss 
the  palpable  obscure,  the  uncouth  way,  the  indefati 
gable  wing,  are  all  happy  expressions. 


— What  is  said  of  their  works  ? — Give  Ossian's  description  of  the 
ruins  of  Balclutha  ? 

What  is  said  of  a  proper  choice  of  epithets  ?— What  is  farther  said 
on  this  subject  ? 


[217] 


LECTURE  XXXVI. 
THE  POETRY  OF  THE  HEBREWS.  / 

In  treating  of  the  various  kinds  of  poetry,  that  of 
the  Scriptures  justly  deserves  a  place.  The  sacred 
books  present  us  the  most  ancient  monuments  of 
poetiy  now  extant,  and  furnish  a  curious  subject  of 
criticism.  They  display  the  taste  of  a  remote  age  and 
j  country.  They  exhibit  a  singular,  but  beautiful 
(  species  of  composition;  and  it  must  give  great  plea- 
sure, if  we  find  the  beauty  and  dignity  of  the  style 
adequate  to  the  w^eight  and  importance  of  the  matter..^^ 
Dr.  Lowth's  learned  treatise  on  the  poetry  of  the  He- 
brews, ought  to  be  perused  by  all.  It  is  an  exceed- 
ingly valuable  work,  both  for  elegance  of  style,  and 
justness  of  criticism.  "We  cannot  do  better  than  to 
follow  the  track  of  this  ingenious  author. 

Amono'  the  Hebrews,  poetry  was  cultivated  from 
the  earhe&  times.  Its  general  construction  is  singular 
and  pecuhar.  It  consists  in  dividing  every  period 
into  correspondent,  for  the  most  part  into  equal  mem- 
bers, which  answer  to  each  other,  both  in  sense  and 
sound.  In  the  first  member  of  a  period  a  sentiment 
is  expressed ;  and  in  the  second,  the  same  sentiment 
is  amphfied,  or  repeated  in  difi'erent  terms,  or  some- 
times contrasted  with  its  opposite.  Thus :  "  Sing 
mito  the  Lord  a  new  song ;  sing  unto  the  Lord  all  tiiQ 
earth.  Sing  unto  the  Lord  and  bless  his  name ;  show 
forth  his  salvation  from  day  to  day.    Decla^3  his 


What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  do  the  sacred  books  present  and  furnish  ? — What  do  they 
display  and  exhibit  ?— What  treatise  ought  to  be  perused  ?— Wh»l 
is  said  of  it  ? 

Was  poetry  cultivated  from  the  earliest  times  among  the  He- 
trews  ?— What  is  said  of  the  construction  of  their  poetry  ?— Giye  tlie 
example. 

19 


218 


POETRY  OF  THE  HEBREWS. 


glory  among  the  heatlien  ;  his  wonders  among  all 
people." 

This  form  of  poetical  composition  is  deduced  from 
the  manner  in  which  the  Hebrews  sung  their  sacred 
hymns.  These  were  accompanied  with  music,  and 
performed  by  bands  of  singers  and  musicians,  who 
alternately  answered  each  other.  One  band  began 
the  hymn  thus :  The  Lord  reigneth,  let  the  earth 
rejoice ;"  and  the  chorus,  or  semi-chorus,  took  up  the 
corresponding  versicle :  "  Let  the  multitudes  of  the 
isles  be  glad  thereof." 

But,  independent  of  its  peculiar  mode  of  construc- 
tion, the  sacred  poetry  is  distinguished  by  the  highest 
beauties  of  strong,  concise,  bold,  and  figurative  ex- 
pression. Conciseness  and  strength  are  two  of  its 
most  remarkable  characters.  '  The  sentences  are 
always  short.  The  same  thought  is  never  dwelt 
upon  long.  Hence  the  sublimity  of  the  Hebrew 
poetry;  and  all  writers  who  attempt  _the.  sublime, 
might  profit  much  by  imitating,  in  this  respect,  the 
style  of  the  Old  Testament.  No  writings  abound  so 
much  in  bold  and  animated  figures,  as  the  sacred 
books.  Metaphors,  comparisons,  allegories,  and  per- 
sonifications, are  particularly  frequent.  But  to  relish 
these  figures  justly,  we  must  transport  ourselves  into 
Judea,  and  attend  to  particular  circumstances  in  it. 
Through  all  that  region,  little  or  no  rain  falls  in  the 
summer  months.  Hence,  to  represent  distress,  fre- 
quent allusions  are  made  to  a  dry  and  thirsty  land 
where  no  water  is  ;  and  hence,  to  describe  a  change 
from  distress  to  prosperity,  their  metaphors  are 
founded  on  the  falling  of  showers,  and  the  bursting 
out  of  springs  in  a  desert.  Thus  in  Isaiah ;  "  The 
wilderness  and  the  solitary  place  shall  be  glad,  and 
the  desert  shall  rejoice  and  blossom  as  the  rose.  Foi 


From  -what  is  this  form  of  composition  deduced  ? 
How  is  sacred  p»^etry  distinguished,  independent  of  its  mode  ot 
construction  ? 


POETRY  OF  THE  HEBREWS. 


21& 


m  tlie  v/ilclerness  sliall  waters  break  out,  and  streams 
in  the  desert ;  and  the  parched  ground  shall  become 
a  pool ;  and  the  thhsty  land  springs  of  water  ;  in  the 
habitation  of  dragons  there  shall  be  grass,  with  rushes 
and  reeds." 

Comparisons  employed  by  the  sacred  poets,  are 
generally  short,  touching  only  one  point  of  resem- 
blance. Such  is  the  following  :  "  He  that  ruleth  over 
men,  must  be  just,  ruhng  in  the  fear  of  God  ;  and  he 
shall  be  as  the  light  of  the  morning,  when  the  sun 
riseth ;  even  a  morning  without  clouds  ;  as  the  tender 
gTass,  springing  out  of  the  earth  by  clear  shining, 
after  rain." 

Allegory  is  likewise  frequently  employed  in  the 
sacred  books ;  and  a  fine  instance  of  this  occurs  in 
the  Ixxxth  Psalm,  wherein  the  people  of  Israel  are 
compared  to  a  vine.  Of  parables,  the  prophetical 
writings  are  full ;  and  if  to  us  they  sometimes  appear 
obscure,  we  should  remember,  that  in  early  times  it 
was  universally  the  custom  among  all  eastern  nations, 
to  convey  sacred  truths  under  mysterious  figures. 

The  figure,  however,  which  elevates  beyond  all 
others,  the  poetical  style  of  the  Scriptures,  is  personi- 
fication. The  personifications  of  the  inspired  writers 
exceed,  in  force  and  magnificence,  those  of  all  other 
poets.  This  is  more  particularly  true,  when  any  ap- 
pearance or  operation  of  the  Almighty  is  concerned. 
*  Before  him  went  the  pestilence.  The  waters  saw 
thee,  O  God,  and  were  afraid.  The  mountains  saw 
thee,  and  they  trembled.  The  overflowings  of  the 
waters  passed  by ;  the  deep  uttered  his  voice,  and 
ifted  up  his  hands  on  high."    The  poetry  of  the 


What  is  said  of  the  comparisons  employed  by  the  sacred  poets  ?— 
Give  the  example. 

Is  allegory  employed  in  the  sacred  books  ? — What  was  a  custom 
among  eastern  nations  ? 

What  figure  most  elevates  the  poetical  style  of  the  Scriptures  ?— 
"What  is  said  of  the  personifications  of  the  inspired  writers  ? — ^Whcn 
is  this  more  particularly  true  ? 


220 


POETRY  OF  THE  HEBREWS. 


Scriptures  is  veiy  different  from  modern  poetry.  It 
is  the  burst  of  inspiration.  Bold  sublimity,  not  cor- 
rect elegance,  is  its  character. 

The  several  kinds  of  poetry  found  in  Scripture,  are 
chiefly  the  didactic,  elegiac,  pastoral,  and  lyric.  The 
book  of  Proverbs  is  the  principal  instance  of  the 
didactic  species  of  poetry.  Of  elegiac  poetry,  the 
lamentation  of  David  over  Jonathan,  is  a  very  beau- 
tiful instance.  Of  pastoral  poetry,  the  Song  of  Solo- 
mon is  a  high  exemplification ;  and  of  lyric  poetry, 
the  Old  Testament  is  full.  The  whole  Book  of 
Psalms  is  a  collection  of  sacred  odes. 

Among  the  composers  of  the  sacred  books,  there  is 
an  evident  diversity  of  style.  Of  the  sacred  poets, 
the  most  eminent  are  the  author  of  the  book  of  Job, 
Da^ad,  and  Isaiah.  In  the  compositions  of  David, 
there  is  a  great  variety  of  manner.  In  the  soft  and 
tender  he  excels;  and  in  his  Psalms  are  many  lofty 
passages.  But  in  strength  of  description,  he  yields 
to  Job  ;  in  sublimity,  to  Isaiah.  Without  exception, 
Isaiah  is  the  most  sublime  of  all  poets.  Dr.  Lowth 
compares  Isaiah  to  Homer,  Jeremiah  to  Simonides, 
and  Ezekiel  to  Eschylus.  Among  the  minor  prophets, 
Hosea,  Joel,  Micah,  Habakkuk,  and  especially  Na- 
hum,  are  distinguished  for  poetical  spirit.  In  the 
prophecies  of  Daniel  and  Jonah  there  is  no  poetry. 

The  book  of  Job  is  extremely  ancient ;  the  author 
uncertain ;  and  it  is  remarkable,  that  it  has  no  con- 
nexion with  the  affairs  or  manners  of  the  Hebrews 
It  is  the  most  descriptive  of  all  the  sacred  poems.  A 
peculiar  glow  of  fancy  and  strength  of  description, 
characterize  the  author;  and  no  writer  abounds  so 
much  in  metaphors.    He  renders  visible  whatever  he 


What  several  kinds  of  poetry  are  found  in  the  scriptures  ? — Wher« 
are  these  kinds  to  be  found  ? 

What  is  said  of  the  sacred  poets  ? — What  comparison  is  made  by 
Dr.  Lowth  ? — Who,  among  the  minor  prophets,  are  distinguished 
for  poetical  spirit  ? 

What  observations  are  made  on  the  book  of  Job  ? 


EPIC  POETRY. 


221 


treats.  The  scene  is  laid  in  the  land  of  Uz,  or  Ida- 
mea,  which  is  a  part  of  Arabia;  and  the  imageiy 
employed  differs  from  that  "vvhich  is  pecuhar  to  the 
Hebrews. 


LECTURE  XXXVn. 
EPIC  POETRY. 

Of  all  poetical  works,  the  epic  poem  is  the  most 
dignified.  To  contrive  a  story  which  is  entertaining, 
important,  and  instructive;  to  enrich  it  with  happy 
incidents;  to  enliven  it  by  a  variety  of  characters 
and  descriptions  ;  and  to  maintain  a  uniform  propriety 
of  sentiment,  and  a  due  elevation  of  style,  are  the 
highest  efforts  of  poetical  genius. 

An  epic  poem  is  the  recital  of  some  illustrious  en- 
terprize  in  a  poetical  form.  Epic  poetry  is  of  a  moral 
nature,  and  tends  to  the  promotion  of  virtue.  With 
this  view,  it  acts  by  extending  our  ideas  of  perfection 
and  exciting  admiration.  Now  this  is  accomphshed 
only  by  proper  representations  of  heroic  deeds  and 
vhtuous  characters.  Valour,  truth,  justice,  fidehty, 
friendship,  piety  and  magnanimity,  are  objects  which 
the  epic  muse  presents  to  our  minds  in  the  most 
splendid  and  honourable  colours. 

Epic  composition  is  distinguished  fr-om  histoiy  by 
ts  poetical  form,  and  its  liberty  of  fiction.  It  is  a 
more  calm  composition  than  tragedy.  It  requires  a 
gTave,  equal,  and  supported  dignity.    On  some  occa- 


What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  is  obserTed  of  the  epic  poem  ? — ^What  are  the  highest  efforts 
of  poetical  genius  ? 

Au  epic  poem  is  what  ? — How  does  epic  poetry  act  1 — How  is 
this  accomplished  ?— "What  objects  does  the  epic  muse  present  to  out 
minds  ? 

How  is  epic  composition  distinguished  from  history  ? — What  doeg 
it  require,  demand,  and  embrace  ? 

19* 


222 


EPIC  POETRY. 


sions  it  demands  the  pathetic  and  the  violent ;  and  it 
embraces  a  greater  compass  of  time  and  action  than 
dramatic  writing  admits. 

The  action  or  subject  of  an  epic  poem  must  have 
three  properties.  It  must  be  one  ;  it  must  be  great; 
it  must  be  interesting.  One  action  or  enterprise  must 
constitute  its  subject.  Aristotle  insists  on  unity  aa 
essential  to  epic  poetry;  because  independent  facts 
never  affect  so  deeply  as  a  tale  that  is  one  and  con- 
nected. Virgil  has  chosen  for  his  subject  the  esta- 
bhshment  of  -^neas  in  Italy;  and  the  anger  of 
Achilles,  with  its  consequences,  is  the  subject  of  the 
Ihad. 

It  is  not,  however,  to  be  understood,  that  epic  unity 
excludes  all  episodes.  On  the  contrary,  critics  con- 
sider them  as  great  ornaments  of  epic  poetry.  They 
diversify  the  subject,  and  relieve  the  reader  by  shift- 
ing the  scene.  Thus  Hector's  visit  to  Andromache 
in  the  IKad,  and  Erminia's  adventure  with  the  shep- 
herd, in  the  seventh  book  of  the  Jerusalem,  afford  us 
a  well  judged  and  pleasing  retreat  from  the  camps 
and  battles. 

Secondly,  the  subject  of  an  epic  poem  must  be  so 
great  and  splendid  as  to  fix  attention,  and  to  justify 
the  magnificent  apparatus  the  poet  bestows  on  it 
The  subject  should  also  be  of  ancient  date.  Both 
Lucan  and  Voltaire  have  transgressed  this  rule.  By 
confining  himself  too  strictly  to  historical  truth,  the 
former  does  not  please ;  and  the  latter  has  improperly 
mingled  well  known  events  with  fictitious.  Hence 
they  exhibit  not  that  greatness  which  the  epic  requires. 

The  thhd  requisite  in  an  epic  subject  is,  that  it  be 
mteresting.    This  depends  in  a  gi-eat  measure  upon 


How  many  properties' must  the  subject  of  an  epic  poem  have?— 
flow? 

Are  all  episodes  excluded  by  epic  unity  ? — Of  what  service  are 
episodes  ? 

How  must  the  subject  of  an  epic  poem  be  ? — What  is  observed  of 
Lucan  and  Voltaire  ? 


EPIC  POETRY. 


220 


tlie  clioice  of  it.  But  it  depends  mucli  more  upon 
the  skilful  management  of  the  poet.  He  must  so 
frame  his  plan  as  to  comprehend  many  affecting  inci- 
dents. He  must  sometimes  dazzle  viiih  rahant 
achievements ;  sometimes  he  must  he  av.-M  and  au 
gust ;  often  tender  and  pathetic  ;  and  he  must  some- 
times give  us  gentle  and  pleasing  scenes  of  love 
friendship,  and  affection. 

To  render  the  subject  interesting,  much  also  depends 
upon  the  dangers  and  obstacles  which  must  be  en- 
coimtered.  It  is  by  the  management  of  these,  that 
the  poet  must  rouse  attention,  and  hold  his  reader  in 
suspense  and  agitation. 

It  is  generally  supposed  by  critics,  that  an  epic 
poem  should  conclude  successfully;  as  an  unhappy 
conclusion  depresses  the  mind.  Indeed,  ii  is  on  the 
prosperous  side  that  epic  poems  generally  conclude. 
But  two  authors  of  gTeat  name,  Miltuu  and  Lucan, 
hold  the  contraiy  course.  The  one  concludes  with 
the  subversion  of  Roman  liberty :  and  the  other  with 
the  ex|Dulsion  of  man  from  Paradise. 

!N"o  precise  boundaries  can  be  ffsed  for  the  duration 
of  the  epic  action.  The  action  of  the  Iliad  lasts, 
according  to  Bossu,  only  forty-seven  days.  The 
action  of  the  Odyssey  extends  to  eight  years  and  a 
half;  and  that  of  the  ^Eneid  in  chides  about  six  years. 

The  personages  in  an  epic  poem  should  be  propei 
and  well  supported.  They  shotild  display  the  fea- 
ttires  c-f  human  nature ;  and  may  admit  different  de 
grees  of  \irtue,  and  even  vice ;  though  the  principa\ 
characters  should  be  such  as  wih  raise  admiration  and 
love.    Poetic  charactei-s  are  of  two  sorts,  general  and 


Wliat  is  the  third  requisite  in  an  epic  subject  ? — What  does  thia 
depend  npcn  ? — What  must  the  poet  do  ? 

Ho^  should  an  epic  poem  conclude  ? — ^What  course  is  held  by 
Milton  and  Lucan  ? 

Can  the  time  of  the  action  be  limited  ? — What  is  said  of  the  action 
of  the  Iliad,  the  Odyssey,  and  the  ^aeid  ' 

"What  is  said  of  the  personages  in  an  epic  poem  ? — Of  -what  twc 


224 


EPIC  POETRY. 


particular.  General  characters  are  such  as  are  wise, 
brave,  and  virtuous,  without  any  further  distinction. 
Particular  characters  express  the  species  of  bravery, 
of  wisdom,  and  of  virtue,  for  which  any  one  is  remark- 
able. In  this  discrimination  of  characters,  Homer 
excels.  Tasso  approaches  the  nearest  to  him  in  this 
respect ;  and  Virgil  is  the  most  deficient. 

Among  epic  poets  it  is  the  practice  to  select  some 
personage  as  the  hero  of  the  tale.  This  renders  the 
unity  of  the  subject  more  perfect,  and  contributes 
highly  to  the  interest  and  perfection  of  this  species  of 
writing.  It  has  been  asked,  who  then  is  the  hero  of 
Paradise  Lost?  The  devil,  say  some  critics,  who 
affect  to  be  pleasant  against  Milton.  But  they  mis- 
take his  intention,  by  supposing,  that  whoever  is  tri- 
umphant in  the  close,  must  be  the  hero  of  the  poem. 
For  Adam  is  Milton's  hero ;  that  is,  the  capital  and 
most  interesting  figure  in  his  poem. 

In  epic  poetry,  there  are  beside  human  characters, 
gods  and  supernatural  beings.  This  forms  what  is 
called  the  machinery  of  epic  poetry  ;  and  the  French 
suppose  this  essential  to  the  nature  of  an  epic  poem. 
They  hold,  that  in  every  epic  composition,  the  main 
action  is  necessarily  carried  on  by  the  intervention  of 
gods.  But  there  seems  to  be  no  solid  reason  for  their 
opinion.  Lucan  has  no  gods,  nor  supernatural  agents. 
The  author  of  Leonidas  "also  has  no  machinery. 

But  though  machinery  is  not  absolutely  necessary 
to  the  epic  plan,  it  ought  not  to  be  totally  excluded 
from  it.  The.  marvellous  has  a  great  charm  for  most 
readers.  It  leads  to  sublime  description,  and  fills  the 
imagination.    At  the  same  time  it  becomes  a  poet  to 


sorts  are  poetic  characters  ? — What  are  general  characters  ? — Par- 
ticular characters  ? 

What  is  a  practice  araong  epic  poets  ? — What  effect  has  this  ? 

What  are  there  in  epic  poetry  beside  human  characters  ? — What 
is  this  called  ? 

What,  though  not  absolutely  necessary,  ought  not  to  be  escluded 
from  the  epic  plan? — Why  ? 


EPIC  POETRY. 


225 


be  temperate  in  the  use  of  supernatural  macliinery  \ 
and  so  to  employ  tlie  religious  faitli  or  superstition  of 
his  country,  as  to  give  an  air  of  probability  to  events 
most  contrary  to  the  common  course  of  nature. 

V/ith  regard  to  the  allegorical  personages,  feme, 
discord,  love,  and  the  like,  they  form  the  Avorst  kind 
of  machinery.  In  description  they  may  sometimes 
be  ahowed ;  but  they  should  never  bear  any  part  in 
the  action  of  the  poem.  As  they  are  only  mere  names 
of  general  ideas,  they  ought  not  to  be  considered  as 
persons  ;  and  cannot  mingle  with  human  actors,  with- 
out an  intolerable  confusion  of  shadows  with  realities. 

In  the  narration  of  the  poet,  it  is  of  little  conse- 
quence, whether  he  relate  the  whole  story  in  his  own 
character,  or  introduce  one  of  his  personages  to  relate 
a  part  of  the  action  that  passed  before  the  poem  opens. 
Homer  follows  one  method  in  his  Iliad,  and  the  other 
in  his  Odyssey.  It  is  to  be  observed,  however,  that 
if  the  narrative  be  given  by  any  of  the  actors,  it  gives 
the  poet  greater  hberty  of  spreading  out  such  parts  of 
the  subject,  as  he  incHnes  to  dwell  upon  in  person,  and 
of  comprising  the  rest  within  a  short  recital.  When 
the  subject  is  of  great  extent,  and  comprehends  the 
ti'ansactions  of  several  years,  as  in  the  Odyssey  and 
JEneid,  this  method  seems  preferable.  But,  when  the 
subject  is  of  smaller  compass  and  shorter  duration,  as 
in  the  Iliad  and  Jerusalem,  the  poet  may,  without  dis- 
advantage, relate  the  whole  in  his  own  person. 

What  is  of  most  importance  in  the  nan-ation,  is,  that 
it  be  perspicuous,  animated,  and  enriched  with  every 
poetic  beauty.  'No  sort  of  composition  requires  more 
strength,  dignity,  and  fire,  than  an  epic  poem.    It  is 


Should  allegorical  personages  be  introduced  in  this  kind  of  writ- 
ing ? 

How  should  the  narration  of  the  poet  be  managed  ?— What  is  far- 
ther said  on  this  subject  ? — What  advantage  results  if  the  narrative 
be  given  by  any  of  the  actors  ? 

What  is  of  most  importance  in  the  narration  ?— What  is  observed 
of  an  epic  poem  'i 


226 


homer's  ILIAD  AND  ODYSSEY. 


the  region  in  which  we  look  for  every  thing  subhme 
in  description,  tender  in  sentiment,  and  bold  or  lively 
in  expression.  The  ornaments  of  epic  poetry  are 
grave  and  chaste.  Nothing  loose,  ludicrous,  or^aifect- 
ed,  finds  place  there.  All  the  objects  it  presents,  ought 
to  be  great,  tender,  or  pleasing.  Descriptions  of  dis- 
gusting or  shocking  objects  are  to  be  avoided  ;  hence 
the  fable  of  the  Harpies  in  the  ^neid,  and  the  alle- 
gory of  Sin  and  Death,  in  Paradise  Lost,  should  have 
been  omitted. 


LECTURE  XXXVin. 
HOMER'S  ILLiD  AND  ODYSSEY. 

The  father  of  epic  poetry  is  Homer ;  and  in  order 
to  relish  him,  we  must  divest  ourselves  of  modern 
ideas  of  dignity  and  refinement,  and  transport  our 
imagination  almost  three  thousand  years  back  in  the 
history  of  mankind.  The  reader  is  to  expect  a  pic- 
ture of  the  ancient  world.  The  two  great  characters 
of  Homer's  poetry,  are  fire  and  simplicity.  But  to 
have  a  clear  idea  of  his"ih'erit,  let  us'consider  the  Iliad 
under  the  three  heads  of  the  subject  or  action,  the 
characters,  and  the  narration. 

The  subject  of  the  Ihad  is  happily  chosen.  For  no 
'  Tibject  could  be  more  splendid  than  the  Trojan  war. 
A  great  confederacy  of  the  Grecian  states,  and  ten 
years'  siege  of  Troy,  must  have  spread  far  abroad  the 
renown  of  many  military  exploits,  and  given  an  exten- 
sive interest  to  the  heroes  who  were  concerned  in 
them.    Upon  these  traditions.  Homer  grounded  his  ' 


What  are  the  subjects  of  this  lecture  ? 

Who  is  the  father  of  epic  poetry  ? — What  must  we  do  in  order  to 
Ireli^h  him  ? — What  are  the  two  great  characters  of  Homer's  poetry  ? 

Is  the  subject  of  the  Iliad  well  chosen  ? — Upon  what  traditions 
did  Homer  ground  his  poem  ? — What  part  of  the  war  did  he  select  ? 


homer's  ILIAD  AND  ODYSSEY. 


221 


poem  ;  and,  as  lie  lived  two  or  three  centuries  after 
the  Trojan  Avar,  he  had  full  liberty  to  intermingle 
fable  with  history.  He  chose  not,  however,  the  whole 
Trojan  war  for  his  subject ;  but  with  great  judgment, 
selected  the  quarrel  between  Achilles  and  Agamem- 
non, which  includes  the  most  interesting  period  of  the 
war.  He  has  thus  given  greater  unity  to  his  poem. 
He  has  gained  one  hero  or  principal  character,  that  is, 
Achilles ;  and  shown  the  pernicious  effects  of  discord  ' 
among  confederated  princes. 

The  praise  of  high  invention  has  in  eveiy  age  been 
justly  given  to  Homer.  His  incidents,  speeches,  cha- 
racters, divine  and  human  ;  his  battles,  his  httle  his-  - 
tory  pieces  of  the  persons  slain,  discover  a  boundless 
invention.  Nor  is  his  judg-ment  less  worthy  of  praise. 
His  story  is  conducted  with  great  art.  He  rises  upon 
us  gradually.  His  heroes  are  introduced  with  exqui- 
site skill  to  our  acquaintance.  The  distress  thickens, 
as  the  poem  advances  ;  every  thing  serves  to  aggTan- 
dize  Achilles,  and  to  make  him  the  capital  figure. 

Li  characters.  Homer  is  without  a  rival.  He  abounds 
in  dialogue  and  conversation,  and  this  produces  a  spi- 
rited exhibition  of  his  personages.  This  dramatic 
method,  however,  though  more  natural,  expressive, 
and  animated,  is  less  grave  and  majestic,  than  narra- 
tive. Some  of  Homer's  speeches  are  unseasonable, 
and  others  trifling.  With  the  Greek  vivacity,  he  has 
also  some  of  the  Greek  loquacity. 

In  no  character,  perhaps,  does  he  display  greatei 
art  than  in  that  of  Helen.  Notwithstanding  hei 
frailty  and  crimes,  he  contrives  to  make  her  an  inte- 
resting object.  The  admiration  with  which  the  old 
generals  bfeheld  her,  when  she  is  coming  towards 


To  whom  has  the  praise  of  high  invention  been  given  ? — In  what 
did  he  discover  his  invention  ? — How  did  he  show  his  judgment  ? 
Are  Homer's  characters  well  supported  ? 
In  what  character  does  Homer  display  great  art  ? 


228  homer's  ILIAD  AND  ODYSSEY. 

them ;  her  veiling  herself  and  shedding  tears  in  the 
presence  of  Priam ;  her  grief  at  the  sight  of  Mene- 
laus ;  her  upbraiding  of  Paris  for  his  cowardice,  and 
her  returning  fondness  for  him,  are  exquisite  strokes, 
and  worthy  of  a  great  master. 

Homer  has  been  accused  of  making  Achilles  toe 
brutai  a  character,  and  critics  seem  to  have  adopted 
this  censure  from  two  lines  of  Horace : 

Impiger,  iracundus,  inexorabilis,  acer, 

J ura  negat  sibi  nata  ;  nihil  non  arrogat  armis. 

It  appears  that  Horace  went  beyond  the  truth, 
Achilles  is  passionate ;  but  he  is  not  a  contemner  of 
law.  He  has  reason  on  his  side ;  for,  though  he  dis- 
covers too  much  heat,  it  must  be  allowed  that  he  had 
been  notoriously  wronged.  Beside  bravery  and  con- 
tempt of  death,  he  has  the  qualities  of  openness  and 
sincerity.    He  loves  his  subjects,  and  respects  the  gods. 

He  is  warm  in  his  friendships ;  and  throughout,  he 
is  high  spirited,  gallant,  and  honourable. 

Homer's  gods  make  a  great  figure;  but  his  ma- 
chinery was  not  his  own  invention.  He  followed  the 
traditions  of  his  country. 

But  though  his  machinery  is  often  lofty  and  magni- 
ficent, yet  his  gods  are  often  deficient  in  dignity. 
They  have  all  the  human  passions;  they  drink  and 
feast,  and  are  vulnerable,  like  men.  While,  however, 
he  at  times  degi'ades  his  divinities,  he  knows  how  to 
make  them  appear  with  most  awful  majesty.  Jupiter, 
for  the  most  part,  is  introduced  with  great  dignity ; 
and  several  of  the  most  subHme  conceptions  in  the 
[liad  are  founded  on  the  appearances  of  Neptune, 
Minerva,  and  Apollo. 

The  style  of  Homer  is  easy,  natural,  and  highly 
animated.  Of  all  the  great  poets,  he  is  the  most 
simple  in  his  style,  and  resembles  most  the  style  of 
the  poetical  parts  of  the  Old  Testament.  Pope's 


What  is  saiiJ  oi  HomeT's  maralnery  ? 
What  are  tho  erteilenciea  oi  Homer's  style  ? 


homer's  ILIAD  AND  ODYSSEY. 


229 


translation  of  him  affords  no  idea  of  his  manner.  His 
versification,  however,  is  allowed  to  be  uncomm9nly 
melodious,  and  to  carry,  beyond  that  of  any  poet, 
resemblance  of  sound  to  sense. 

In  narration,  Homer  is  always  concise  and  descrip- 
tive. He  paints  his  objects  in  a  manner  to  our  sight. 
His  battles  are  singularly  admirable.  We  see  them  in 
all  their  huiTy,  terror,  and  confusion.  In  similes  no 
poet  abounds  so  much.  His  comparisons,  however, 
taken  in  general,  are  not  his  gi-eatest  beauties ;  they 
come  upon  us  in  too  quick  succession ;  and  often  dis- 
turb his  narration  or  description.  His  lions,  bulls, 
eagles,  and  herds  of  sheep,  recur  too  fi-equently. 

The  criticism  of  Longinus  upon  the  Odyssey,  is  not 
without  foundation ;  that  in  this  poem  Homer  may  be 
likened  to  the  setting  sun,  whose  gi-andeur  remains 
without  the  heat  of  his  meridian  beams.  It  wants  the 
vigour  and  sublimity  of  the  Iliad;  yet  possesses  so 
many  beauties,  as  to  be  justly  entitled  to  high  praise. 
It  is  a  very  amusing  poem,  and  has  much  greater 
variety  than  the  Iliad.  It  contains  many  interesting 
stories  and  pleasing  pictures  of  ancient  manners. 
Instead  of  the  ferocity  which  pervades  the  Iliad,  it 
presents  us  most  amiable  images  of  humanity  and  hos- 
pitahty.  It  entertains  us  with  many  a  w^onderful 
adventm'e,  and  many  a  landscape  of  nature;  and 
instructs  us  by  a  rich  vein  of  morality  and  virtue,  run- 
ning through  every  part  of  the  poem. 

There  are  some  defects,  however,  in  the  Odyssey. 
Many  of  its  scenes  fall  below  the  majesty  of  an  epic 
poem.  The  last  twelve  books  are,  in  many  places, 
languid  and  tedious ;  and,  perhaps,  the  poet  is  not 
happy  in  the  discovery  of  Ulysses  to  Penelope.  She 
is  too  cautious  and  distrustful ;  and  we  meet  not  that 
V)yotis  surprise,  expected  on  such  an  occasion. 


What  are  the  heanties  of  Homer's  narration  ? 
What  is  said  of  the  criticism  of  Longinus,  and  -what  is  the  coxa, 
parative  merit  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  ? 

20 


[  230  ] 


THE  M^EID  OF  VIRGIL. 

The  distinguisliing  excellencies  of  the  ^neld  are 
elegance  and  tenderness.  Virgil  is  less  animated  and 
less  sublime  tlian  Homer  ;  but  he  has  fewer  negligen- 
cies,  greater  variety,  and  more  dignity.  The  ^neid 
has  all  the  correctness  and  improvements  of  the 
Augustan  age.  We  meet  no  contention  of  heroes 
about  a  female  slave ;  no  violent  scolding,  nor  abusive 
language ;  but  the  poem  opens  with  the  utmost  mag- 
nificence. 

The  subject  of  the  JEneid,  which  is  the  establish- 
ment of  ^neas  in  Italy,  is  extremely  happy.  Nothing 
could  be  more  interesting  to  the  Romans,  than  Virgil's 
deriving  their  origin  from  so  famous  a  hero  as  JEneas. 
The  object  was  splendid  itself;  it  gave  the  poet  a 
theme,  taken  from  the  traditionary,  history  of  his 
country ;  it  allowed  him  to  adopt  Homer's  mythology ; 
and  afforded  him  frequent  opportunities  of  glancing 
at  all  the  future  great  exploits  of  the  Romans,  and 
of  describing  Italy  in  its  ancient  and  fabulous  state. 

Unity  of  action  is  perfectly  preserved  in  the  ^neid. 
The  settlement  of  JEneas  in  Italy  by  order  of  the 
gods,  is  constantly  kept  in  view.  The  episodes  are 
properly  linked  to  the  main  subject ;  and  the  nodus  or 
intrigue  of  the  poem  is  happily  formed.  The  wrath 
of  Juno,  who  opposes  -(Eneas,  gives  rise  to  all  his 
difficulties,  who  connects  the  human  with  the  celestial 
operations,  through  the  whole  poem. 

Great  art  and  judgment  are  displayed  in  the  ^neid ; 
but  even  Virgil  is  not  without  his  faults.  One  is,  that 
he  has  so  few  marked  characters.    Achates,  Cloanthes, 


What  are  the  distinguishing  excellencies  of  the  Mneid.  ?— What  is 
eaid  of  Virgil  and  the  ^neid  ? 

What  is  remarked  on  the  subject  of  the  iEneid  ? 

What  are  the  merits  of  the  action  in  the  JEneid  ? — Of  the  episodes  ? 
—Of  the  intrigue  ? 

In  what  manner  did  Yirgil  succeed  with  his  characters  ? 


THE  iENEID  OF  VIRGIL. 


231 


Gyas,  and  other  Trojan  heroes,  who  accompanied 
iEneas  into  Italy,  are  undistinguished  figures.  E^en 
JEneas  himself  is  not  a  very  interesting  hero.  He 
is  described,  indeed,  as  pious  and  brave;  but  his 
character  is  not  marked  by  those  strokes  that  touch 
the  heart.  The  character  of  Dido  is  the  best  supported 
in  the  whole  ^neid.  Her  warmth  of  passion,  keen- 
ness of  resentment,  and  violence  of  character,  exhibit] 
a  more  animated  figm-e  than  any  other  Virgil  has 
drawn. 

The  management  of  the  subject,  also,  is  in  some 
respects  exceptionable.  The  last  six  books  received 
not  the  finishing  hand  of  the  author;  and,  for  this 
reason,  he  ordered  his  poem  to  be  committed  to  the 
flames.  The  wars  with  the  Latins  are  in  dignity 
inferior  to  the  more  interesting  objects  pre\'iously  pre- 
sented to  us ;  and  the  reader  is  tempted  to  take  part 
with  Tm'nus  against  ^neas. 

The  principal  exceUency  of  Virgil,  and  what  he 
possesses  beyond  all  poets,  is  tenderness.  His  soul 
was  fuh  of  sensibihty.  He  felt  himself  all  the  aff'ect- 
ing  circumstances  in  the  scenes  he  describes ;  and 
knew  how,  by  a  single  stroke,  to  reach  the  heart. 
In  an  epic  poem,  this  merit  is 'next  to  sublimity. 
The  second  book  of  the  ^neid,  is  one  of  the  greatest 
master  pieces  ever  executed.  The  death  of  old  Priam, 
and  the  family  pieces  of  ^neas,  Anchises,  and  Creusa, 
are  as  tender  as  can  be  conceived.  In  the  fourth 
book,  the  unhappy  passion  and  death  of  Dido  are 
admirable.  The  inter^dew  of  ^neas  with  Andromache 
and  Helenus,  in  the  third  book ;  the  episodes  of  Pal- 
las and  Evander,  of  Nisus  and  Euryalus,  of  Lausus 
and  Mezentius,  are  all  striking  instances  of  the  power 
of  raising  the  tender  emotions.  The  best  and  most 
finished  books  are  the  fii'st,  second,  fomth,  sixth, 
seventh,  eighth  and  twelfth. 


In  -what  does  Virgil's  principal  exceUency  consist  ? — Which  Doosa 
of  the  ^neid  are  best  and  most  finished  ? 


232 


lucan's  pharsalia. 


Virgil's  battles  are,  in  fii-e  and  sublimity,  far  inferior 
to  Homer's.  But 'in  one  important  episode,  tbe  descent 
into  hell,  he  has  outdone  Homer  in  the  Odyssey,  by 
many  degrees.  There  is  nothing  in  all  antiquity,  equal 
in  its  kind,  to  the  sixth  book  of  the  ^neid.  The 
scenery,  the  objects,  and  the  description  are  great, 
solemn,  and  subhme. 

With  regard  to  the  comparative  merit  of  these  two 
great  princes  of  epic  poetry,  it  must  be  allowed  that 
Homer  was  the  greater  genius,  and  Virgil  the  more 
correct  writer.  Homer  is  more  original,  more  bold, 
more  sublime,  and  more  forcible.  In  judgment  they 
are  both  eminent.  Homer  has  all  the  Greek  vivacity ; 
Virgil  all  the  Roman  stateliness.  The  imagination  of 
Homer  is  the  most  copious ;  that  of  Virgil  the  most 
correct.  The  strength  of  the  former  lies  in  warming 
the  fe-ncy ;  that  of  the  latter  in  touching  the  heart. 
Homer's  style  is  more  simple  and  animated  ;  Virgfi's 
more  elegant  and  uniform. 


LECTURE  XXXIX. 

LUCAN'S  PHARSALIA. 

Luc  AN  is  inferior  to  Homer  and  Virgil ;  yet  he  de- 
serves attention.  There  is  Httle  invention  in  his  Phar- 
saha  ;  and  it  is  conducted  in  too  historical  a  manner 
to  be  strictly  epic.  It  may  be  arranged,  however,  in 
the  epic  class,  as  it  treats  of  great  and  heroic  adven- 
tm-es.  The  subject  of  the  Pharsalia  has  all  the  epic 
dignity  and  grandeur  ;  and  it  possesses  unity  of  object, 
viz.,  the  triumph  of  Csesar  over  Roman  Liberty. 


In  what  episode  has  Virgil  excelled  Homer  ? 

What  are  the  comparative  merits  of  Homer  and  Virgil  ? 

What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

What  is  said  of  Lucan  ?— Of  liis  Pharsalia  ?— Of  the  subject  of  the 
Pharsalia  ? 


lucan's  pharsalia. 


233 


But,  tlioiigli  tlie  subject  of  Lucan  is  confessedly 
heroic,  it  lias  two  defects.  Civil  wars  present  object3 
too  shocking  for  epic  poetry,  and  furnish  odiijus  and 
diso'ustinix  views  of  human  nature.  But  Lucan's  o;e- 
nius  seems  to  dehoiit  in  savao-e  scenes. 

The  other  defect  of  Lucan's  subject  is,  that  it  w^as 
too  near  the  time  in  which  he  lived.  This  deprived 
him  of  the  assistance  of  fiction  and  machinery  ;  and 
thereby  rendered  his  work  less  splendid  and  amusing. 
The  facts  on  which  he  founds  his  poem,  were  too 
well  knov^Ti,  and  too  recent,  to  admit  fables  and  the 
interposition  of  gods. 

The  characters  of  Lucan  are  drawn  with  spirit  and 
force.  But,  though  "Pompey  is  his  hero,  he  has  not 
made  him  very  interesting.  He  marks  not  Pompey 
by  any  high  distinction,  either  for  magnanimity  or 
valour.  He  is  always  sm-passed  by  Csesar.  Cato  is 
Lucan's  favourite  character ;  and,  whenever  he  inti'o- 
duces  him,  he  rises  above  himself. 

Li  manaoino'  his  story,  Lucan  confines  himself  too 
much  to  chronological  order.  This  breaks  the  thread 
of  his  narration,  and  hurries  him  fi-om  place  to  place. 
He  is  also  too  digressive ;  frequently  quitting  his  sub- 
ject, to  give  us  some  geographical  description,  or  phi- 
losophical disquisition. 

There  are  several  poetical  and  spirited  descriptions 
in  the  Pharsalia  ;  but  the  strength  of  this  poet  does  not 
lie  either  in  nan-ation  or  description.  His  narration  is 
often  dry  and  harsh  ;  his  descriptions  are  often  over- 
wrought, and  employed  on  disagTceable  objects.  Plis 
chief  merit  consists  in  his  sentiments  ;  which  are  noble, 
striking,  glowing,  and  ardent.    He  is  the  most  philo- 


Has  the  subject  of  Lucan  defects  ?— Wliat  is  the  first  ? 
What  is  the  other  defect  of  Lucan's  subject  ? — Why  is  this  a  de- 
fect ? 

How  are  Lucan's  characters  drawn  ? 

What  error  has  Lucan  committed  in  the  management  of  hij 
Story  ? 

In  what  does  the  chief  merit  of  Lucan  consist  ? 

20*  % 


234 


TASSO'S  JERUSALEM. 


sopliical,  and  tlie  most  patriotic  poet  of  antiquity.  He 
was  a  stoic  ;  and  the  spirit  of  that  philosophy  breathes 
through  his  poem.  He  is  elevated  and  bold  ;  and 
abounds  in  well  timed  exclamations  and  apostrophes. 

As  his  vivacity  and  fire  are  great,  he  is  apt  to  be 
carried  away  by  them.  His  great  defect  is  want  of 
moderation.  He  knows  not  where  to  stop.  When  h 
would  aggrandize  his  objects,  he  becomes  tumid  and 
unnatural.  There  is  much  bombast  in  his  poem.  Hls 
taste  is  marked  with  the  corruption  of  his  age ;  and 
instead  of  poetry,  he  often  exhibits  declamation. 

On  the  whole,  however,  he  is  an  author  of  lively 
and  original  genius.  His  high  sentiments,  and  his  fire, 
serve  to  atone  for  many  of  his  defects.  His  genius  had 
strength,  but  no  tenderness  nor  amity.  Compared 
with  Virgil,  he  has  more  fire  and  sublimer  sentiments ; 
but  in  every  thing  else,  falls  infinitely  below  him,  par- 
ticularly in  purity,  elegance,  and  tenderness. 

Stations  and  Silius  Italicus,  though  poets  of  the  epic 
class,  are  too  inconsiderable  for  particular  criticism. 

TASSO'S  JERUSALEM. 

Jerusalem  Delivered  is  a  strictly  regular  epic 
poem,  and  abounds  with  beauties.  The  subject  is 
the  recovery  of  Jerusalem  from  infidels,  by  the  united 
powers  of  Christendom.  The  enterprise  was  splendid, 
Tenerable,  and  heroic  ;  and  an  interesting  contrast  is 
exhibited  between  the  Christians  and  Saracens.  Re* 
ligion  renders  the  subject  august,  and  opens  a  natu 
ral  field  for  machinery  and  subhme  description.  The 
action,  i,oo,  lies  in  a  country,  and  in  a  period  of  time, 
sufficiently  remote  to  admit  an  intermixture  of  fable 
with  history. 

Rich  invention  is  a  capital  quahty  in  Tasso.  'Ha 


What  is  the  comparison  between  this  author  and  Virgil  ? 

What  is  the  subject  of  "  Jerusalem  Delivered  ? " — What  is  said  on 
the  choice  of  this  subject  ? 


TASSO'S  JERUSALEM. 


235 


is  full  of  events,  finely  diversified.  He  never  fatigues 
his  reader  by  mere  war  and  fighting.  He  frequently 
shifts  the  scene  ;  and  from  camps  and  battles,  trans- 
ports us  to  more  pleasing  objects.  Sometimes  the 
solemnities  of  religion ;  sometimes  the  intrigues  of 
love ;  at  other  times  the  adventures  of  a  journey,  or 
the  incidents  of  pastoral  life,  relieve  and  entertain  the 
reader.  The  work,  at  the  same  time,  is  artfully  con- 
nected ;  and,  in  the  midst  of  variety,  there  is  perfect 
unity  of  plan. 

Many  characters  enliven  the  poem  ;  and  these  dis- 
tinctly marked  and  well  supported.  Godfrey,  the 
leader  of  the  entei-prise,  is  prudent,  moderate,  and 
brave  ;  Tancred,  amorous,  generous,  and  gallant. 
Rinaldo,  who  is  properly  the  hero  of  the  poem,  is 
passionate  and  resentful,  but  frill  of  zeal,  honour,  and 
heroism.  Solyman  is  high  minded  ;  Erminia  tender ; 
Armida,  artful  and  violent ;  and  Clorinda,  masculine. 
In  drawing  characters,  Tasso  is  superior  to  Virgil,  and 
yields  to  no  poet  but  Homer. 

He  abounds  in  machinery.  When  celestial  beings 
interpose,  his  machinery  is  noble.  But  devils,  en- 
chanters, and  conjurors  act  too  great  a  part  throughout 
his  poem.  In  general,  the  marvellous  is  canied  to 
extravagance.  The  poet  was  too  great  an  admirer  of 
the  romantic  spirit  of  knight  errantry. 

In  describing  magnificent  objects,  his  style  is  firm 
and  majestic.  In  gay  and  pleasing  description,  it  is 
soft  and  insinuating.  Erminia's  pastoral  retreat  in 
the  seventh  book,  and  the  arts  and  beauty  of  Armida 
in  the  fourth  book,  are  exquisitely  beautiful.  His 
battles  are  animated,  and  properly  varied  by  inci- 
dents.   It  is  rather  by  actions,  characters,  and  de- 


What  is  a  capital  quality  in  Tasso  ? — What  is  farther  said  on  thia 
BTibject  ? 

Are  Tasso's  characters  distinctly  marked  and  well  supported  ? 
What  is  said  of  his  machinery  ? 

When  is  Tasso's  style  firm  and  majestic,  and  ■when  soft  and  insinu* 
ating  ? — By  what  does  he  interest  us  ? 


236 


LUSIAD  OF  CAMOENS. 


scriptions,  that  he  interests  us,  than  by  the  sentimental 
part  of  his  work.  He  is  far  inferior  to  Virgil  in  ten- 
derness ;  and,  when  he  aims  at  being  sentimental  and 
pathetic,  he  is  apt  to  become  artificial. 

It  has  often  been  objected  to  Tasso,  that  he  abounds 
in  point  and  conceit ;  but  this  censure  has  been  car 
ried  too  far  ;  for,  in  his  general  character,  he  is  mas- 
cuhne  and  strong.  The  humour  of  decrying  him 
passed  from  the  French  critics  to  those  of  England. 
But  their  strictures  are  founded  either  in  ignorance  or 
prejudice.  For  the  Jerusalem  is,  in  my  opinion,  the 
third  regular  epic  poem  in  the  world;  and  stands 
next  to  the  Iliad  and  ^neid.  In  simplicity  and  fire, 
Tasso  is  inferior  to  Homer,  in  tenderness  to  Virgil,  * 
in  sublimity  to  Milton ;  but  for  fertihty  of  invention, 
variety  of  incidents,  expression  of  characters,  richness 
of  description,  and  beauty  of  style,  no  poet,  except 
the  three  just  named,  can  be  compared  to  him. 

THE  LUSIAD  OF  CAMOENS. 

The  Portuguese  boast  of  Camoens,  as  the  Italians 
do  of  Tasso.  The  discovery  of  the  East  Indies  by 
Vasco  de  Gama,  an  enterprise  alike  splendid  and  in- 
teresting, is  the  subject  of  the  poem  of  Camoens. 
The  adventures,  distresses,  and  actions  of  Vasco  and 
his  countrymen,  are  well  fancied  and  described ;  and 
the  Lusiad  is  conducted  on  the  epic  plan.  The  inci- 
dents of  the  poem  are  magnificent ;  and,  joined  with 
some  wildness  and  irregularity,  there  is  displayed  in 
it  much  poetic  spirit,  strong  fancy,  and  bold  descrip- 
tion.   In  the  poem,  however,  there  is  no  attempt 


What  is  tlic  rank  of  Tasso's  Jerusalem  with  respect  to  the  Iliad 
and  JEneid? — What  are  Tasso's  peculiar  excellencies  ? 

What  is  the  subject  of  the  poem  of  Camoens  ?— What  are  described 


LUSIAD  OF  CAMOEXS. 


231 


toward  painting  characters.    Yasco  is  the  hero,  and 
the  only  personage  that  makes  any  figm-e. 

The  machinery  of  the  Lusiad  is  perfectly  extrava- 
gant; being  formed  of  an  odd  mixture  of  Christian 
ideas  and  Pagan  mythology.  Pagan  divinities  appear 
to  be  the  deities  ;  and  Christ  and  the  Holy  Virgin  to 
be  inferior  agents.  One  great  object,  however,  of 
the  Portuguese  expedition,  is  to  extend  the  emphe  of 
Christianity,  and  to  extirpate  Mahometanism.  In 
this  religious  undertaking,  the  chief  protector  of  the 
Portuguese  is  Venus,  and  their  great  adversary  is 
Bacchus.  Jupiter  is  introduced  as  foretelling  the 
downfall  of  Mahomet.  Vasco  during  a  storm  implores 
the  aid  of  Christ  and  the  Virgin  ;  and  in  return  to  this 
prayer  Venus  appears,  and  discovering  the  storm  to 
be  the  work  of  Bacchus,  complains  to  Jupiter,  and 
procures  the  winds  to  be  calmed.  All  this  is  most 
preposterous;  but  toward  the  end  of  his  work,  the 
poet  ofi'ers  an  awkward  apology  for  his  mythology ; 
making  the  goddess  Thetes  inform  Vasco,  that  she 
and  the  other  heathen  divinities  are  no  more  than 
names  to  describe  the  operations  of  Pro\'idence. 

In  the  Lusiad,  however,  there  is  some  fine  ma- 
chinery of  a  diS'erent  kind.  The  appearance  of  the 
genius  of  the  river  Ganges,  in  a  dream  to  Emanuel, 
king  of  Portugal,  inviting  him  to  discover  his  secret 
springs,  and  acquainting  him  that  he  was  the  monarch 
destined  to  enjoy  the  treasures  of  the  East,  is  a  happy 
idea.  But  in  the  fifth  canto,  the  poet  displays  his 
noblest  conception  of  this  sort,  where  Vasco  recounts 
to  the  king  of  Melinda,  all  the  wonders  of  his  voyage. 
He  tells  him,  that  when  the  fleet  anived  at  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope,  which  had  never  been  doubled  before  ' 
by  any  na\'igator,  there  appeared  to  them  suddenly 
a  huge  phantom,  rising  out  of  the  sea,  in  the  midst  of 


What  is  observed  of  the  machinery  of  the  Lusiad  ? — Of  what  ifl 
It  formed? — Does  the  author  offer  anj'  apology  for  his  mythology  I 
Is  there  any  good  machinery  in  the  Lusiad  ? — What  is  it  ? 


238 


TELEMACHUS  OF  FENELON. 


tempest  and  thunder,  with  a  head  that  reached  the 
clouds,  and  a  countenance  that  filled  them  with  terror. 
This  was  the  genius  of  that  hitherto  unknown  ocean 
and  he  menaced  them  in  a  voice  of  thunder  for  in- 
vading those  unknown  seas ;  foretelling  the  calamities 
that  were  to  befall  them,  if  they  should  proceed ;  and 
then  with  a  mighty  noise  disappeared.  This  is  a 
very  solemn  and  striking  piece  of  machinery,  and 
shows  that  Camoens  was  a  poet  of  a  bold  and  lofty 
imagination. 

THE  TELEMACHUS  OF  FENELON. 

It  would  be  unpardonable  in  a  review  of  epic  poets 
to  forget  the  amiable  Fenelon.  His  work,  though  in 
prose,  is  a  poem ;  and  the  plan  in  general  is  well 
contrived,  having  epic  grandeur  and  unity  of  action. 
He  employs  the  ancient  mythology;  and  excels  in 
application  of  it.  There  is  great  richness  as  well  as 
beauty  in  his  descriptions.  To  soft  and  calm  scenes, 
his  genius  is  more  peculiarly  suited ;  such  as  the  inci- 
dents of  pastoral  life,  the  pleasures  of  virtue,  or  a 
country  flourishing  in  peace. 

His  fii'st  books  are  eminently  excellent.  The  ad- 
ventures of  Calypso  are  the  chief  beauty  of  his  work. 
Vivacity  and  interest  join  in  the  narration.  In  the 
books  which  follow,  there  is  less  happiness  in  the 
execution,  and  an  apparent  languor.  The  author,  in 
vs^arlike  adventures,  is  most  unfortunate. 

Some  critics  have  refused  to  rank  this  work  among 
epic  poems.  Their  objection  arises  fi'om  the  minute 
details  it  exhibits  of  virtuous  policy,  and  from  the 
discourses  of  Mentor,  which  recur  too  frequently,  and 
too  much  in  the  strain  of  common-place  morality. 
To  these  peculiarities,  however,  the  author  was  led 

What  are  the  author's  introductory  remarks  on  the  "  Telemachus  '* 
of  Fenelon  ? 

What  is  said  of  his  first  books  ? — What  is  the  chief  beauty  of  hia 
work  ? 


HENRIADE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 


239 


by  tlie  design  witli  which  he  wrote,  that  of  forming 
a  young  prince  to  the  cares  and  duties  of  a  virtuous 
monarch. 

Several  epic  poets  have  described  a  descent  into 
hell ;  and  in  the  prospects  they  have  given  us  of  the 
invisible  world,  we  may  observe  the  gi-adual  refine 
ment  in  the  opinions  of  men,  concerning  a  future  state 
of  rewards  and  punishments.  Homer's  descent  of 
Ulysses  into  hell,  is  indistinct  and  dreary.  The  scene 
is  in  the  countiy  of  the  Cimmerians,  which  is  always 
covered  with  clouds  and  darkness ;  and  when  the 
spirits  of  the  dead  appear,  wS  hardly  know  whether 
Ulysses  is  above  or  below  ground.  The  ghosts,  too, 
even  of  the  heroes,  appear  dissatisfied  with  their  con- 
dition. 

In  Virgil,  the  descent  into  hell  discovers  great  re- 
finement, corresponding  to  the  progTess  of  philosophy. 
The  objects  are  more  distinct,  grand  and  awful. 
There  is  a  fine  description  of  the  separate  mansions 
of  good  and  bad  spirits.  Fenelon's  -visit  of  Tele- 
machus  to  the  shades,  is  still  much  more  philosophical 
than  Virgil's.  He  refines  the  ancient  mythology  by 
his  knowledge  of  the  true  religion,  and  adorns  it  with 
that  beautiful  enthusiasm,  for  which  he  is  so  remark- 
able. His  relation  of  the  happiness  of  the  just  is  an 
excellent  description  in  the  mystic  strain. 

THE  HENRIADE  OF  YOLTATEE. 

The  Henriade  is,  without  doubt,  a  regular  epic 
poem.  In  several  places  of  this  work,  Voltaire  dis- 
covers that  boldness  of  conception,  that  vivacity  and 

WTiat  was  the  author's  design  in  writing  this  poem  ? 

What  may  be  observed  in  the  different  prospects  given  by  the 
eeveral  poets  who  hare  described  a  descent  into  hell  ? 

WTiat  are  the  excellencies  of  Fenelon's  visit  of  Telemachus  to  the 
shades  ? 

Is  the  Henriade  a  regular  epic  poem  ? — "What  does  the  author 
discover  ? — What  is  remarked  of  the  Henriade? 


240 


HENRIADE  OF  VOLTAIRE. 


liveliness  of  expression,  by  which  he  is  so  much  dis- 
tinguished. Several  of  his  comparisons  are  new  and 
happy.  But  the  Henriade  is  not  his  masterpiece.  In 
the  tragic  line  he  has  cei'tainly  been  more  successful 
than  in  the  epic.  French  versification  is  illy  suited 
to  epic  poetry.  It  is  not  only  fettered  by  rhyme,  but 
wants  elevation.  Hence,  not  only  feebleness,  but 
sometimes  prosaic  flatness  in  the  style.  The  poem 
consequently  languishes,  and  the  reader  is  not  ani- 
mated by  that  spirit  which  is  inspired  by  a  subhme 
composition  of  the  epic  kind. 

The  triumph  of  Henry  IV.  over  the  arms  of  the 
League,  is  the  subject  of  the  Henriade.  The  action 
of  the  poem  properly  includes  only  the  siege  of  Paris. 
It  is  an  action  perfectly  epic  ;  and  conducted  with 
due  regard  to  unity,  and  to  the  rules  of  critics.  But 
it  has  great  defects.  It  is  founded  on  civil  wars ;  and 
presents  to  the  mind  those  odious  objects,  massacres 
and  assassinations.  It  is  also  of  too  recent  date,  and 
too  much  within  the  bounds  of  well  known  history. 
The  author  has  farther  erred  by  mixing  fiction  with 
truth.  The  poem,  for  instance,  opens  with  a  voyage 
of  Henry's  to  England,  and  an  interview  between 
him  and  Queen  Elizabeth ;  though  Henry  never  saw 
England,  nor  ever  conversed  with  Elizabeth.  In  sub- 
jects of  such  notoriety,  a  fiction  of  this  kind  shocks 
eveiy  intelligent  reader. 

A  great  deal  of  machinery  is  employed  by  Voltaire, 
for  the  purpose  of  embellishing  his  poem.  But  it  ia 
of  the  worst  kind,  that  of  allegorical  beings.  Discord, 
cunning,  and  love,  appear  as  personages,  and  mix 
with  human  actors.  This  is  contrary  to  all  rational 
criticism.  Ghosts,  angels,  and  devils  have  a  popular 
existence ;  but  every  one  knows  that  allegorical 


What  is  the  subject  of  the  poem  ? — What  siege  does  the  action  of 
the  poem  include  ? — Is  the  action  epic  ? — Has  it  defects  ? — What  are 
they? 

What  is  said  of  the  machinery  of  this  poem  ? 


Milton's  paradise  lost. 


241 


beings  are  no  more  than  representations  of  human 
passions  and  dispositions  ;  and  ought  not  to  have 
place,  as  actors,  in  a  poem  which  relates  to  human 
ti'ansactions. 

In  justice,  however,  it  must  be  observed,  that  the 
machinery  of  St.  Louis  possesses  real  dignity.  The 
prospect  of  the  in\asible  world,  which  St.  Louis  gives 
to  Henry  in  a  dream,  is  the  finest  passage  in  the  Hen- 
riade.  Death  bringing  the  souls  of  the  departed  in 
succession  before  God,  and  the  place  of  destinies  open- 
ed to  Henry,  are  striking  and  magnificent  objects. 

Though  some  of  Voltaire's  episodes  are  properly 
extended,  his  narration  is  too  general.  The  events 
are  superficially  related,  and  too  much  crowded.  The 
strain  of  sentiment,  however,  which  pervades  the 
Henriade,  is  high  and  noble. 

MILTON'S  PARADISE  LOST. 

Milton  chalked  out  a  new  and  very  extraordinary 
com-se.  As  soon  as  we  open  his  Paradise  Lost,  we 
are  introduced  into  an  in^^sible  world,  and  surrounded 
by  celestial  and  infernal  beings.  Angels  and  devils 
are  not  his  machinery,  but  his  principal  actors.  What 
in  any  other  work  would  be  the  marvellous,  is  in  this 
the  natural  course  of  events  ;  and  doubts  may  arise, 
whether  his  poem  be  strictly  an  epic  composition. 
But  whether  it  be  so  or  not,  it  is  certainly  one  of  the 
highest  efforts  of  poetical  genius,  and  in  one  great 
characteristic  of  epic  poetr)^,  majesty  and  subhmity, 
is  equal  to  any  that  bears  this  name. 

The  subject  of  this  poem  led  Milton  upon  diflicult 
gi'ound.    If  it  had  been  more  human  and  less  theolo- 


Does  any  part  of  tlie  macliinery  possess  real  dignity  ? 
What  is  said  of  Voltaire's  narration  ? — What  is  the  strain  of  senti- 
ment pervading  the  Henriade  ? 

Is  Paradise  Lost  an  epic  composition  ? — What  great  characteristie 
of  epic  poetry  does  it  display  ? 

21 


242 


Milton's  paradise  lost. 


gical ;  if  his  occurrences  had  been  more  connected 
with  real  life  ;  if  he  had  afforded  a  greater  display  of 
the  characters  and  passions  of  men  ;  his  poem  would 
have  been  more  pleasing  to  most  readers.  His  sub- 
ject, however,  was  peculiarly  suited  to  the  daring  sub- 
limity of  his  genius.  As  he  alone  was  fitted  for  it,  so 
he  has  shown  in  the  conduct  of  it  a  wonderful  stretch 
of  imagination  and  invention.  From  a  few  hints, 
given  in  the  Sacred  Scriptures,  he  has  raised  a  regular 
structure,  and  filled  his  poem  with  a  variety  of  inci- 
dents. He  is  sometimes  dry  and  harsh  ;  and  too  often 
the  metaphysician  and  divine.  But  the  general  tenor 
of  his  work  is  interesting,  elevated,  and  aftecting.  The 
artful  clmnge  of  his  objects,  and  the  scene,  laid  now  in 
heaven,  now  on  earth,  and  now  in  hell,  afford  sufficient 
diversity ;  while  unity  of  plan  is  perfectly  supported. 
Calm  scenes  are  exhibited  in  the  employments  of 
Adam  and  Eve,  in  Paradise ;  and  busy  scenes,  and 
great  actions  in  the  enterprises  of  Satan,  and  in  the 
wars  of  angels.  The  amiable  innocence  of  our  First 
Parents,  and  the  proud  ambition  of  Satan,  afford  a 
happy  contrast  through  the  whole  poem,  which  gives 
it  an  uncommon  charm.  But  the  conclusion  perhaps 
is  too  tragic  for  epic  poetry. 

The  subject  naturally  admits  no  great  display  of 
characters  ;  but  such  as  could  be  introduced  are  pro- 
perly supported.  Satan  makes  a  striking  figure  ;  and 
is  the  best  drawn  character  in  the  poem.  Milton  has 
artfully  given  him  a  mixed  character,  not  altogether 
void  of  some  good  qualities.  He  is  brave,  and  faithful 
to  his  troops.  Amid  his  impiety  he  is  not  without 
remorse.  He  is  even  touched  with  pity  for  our  First 
Parents ;  and  from  the  necessity  of  his  situation  justi- 
fies his  design  against  them.  lie  is  actuated  by  ambi- 
tion and  resentment,  rather  than  by  pure  malice.  The 


What  is  remarked  on  the  subject  of  Paradise  Lost  ? — What  is  th« 
tenor  of  the  work  ? 
Are  the  characters  introduced  well  supported  ? 


Milton's  paradise  lost. 


243 


characters  of  Beelzebub,  Molocli,  and  Belial,  are  well  ^ 
painted.  The  good  angels,  though  described  with 
dignity,  have  more  uniformity  of  character.  Among 
them,  however,  the  mild  condescension  of  Rapha^ 
and  the  tried  fidelity  of  Abdiel  form  proper  charac- 
teristic distinctions.  The  attempt  to  .  describe  God 
Almighty  himself,  was  too  bold,  and  accordingly  most 
unsuccessful.  The  innocence  of  our  First  Parents  ia 
delicately  painted.  In  some  speeches,  perhaps  Adam 
appears  too  knowing  and  refined  for  his  situation. 
Eve  is  hit  ofi"  more  happily.  Her  gentleness,  modesty, 
and  frailty,  are  expressively  characteristic  of  the  female 
character. 

Milton's  great  and  distinguishing  excellence  is  his 
sublimity.  In  this,  perhaps,  he  excels  even  Homer. 
The  first  and  second  books  of  Paradise  Lost  are 
almost  a  continued  series  of  the  highest  subhme.  But, 
his  sublimity  differs  from  that  of  Homer ;  which  is 
always  accompanied  by  impetuosity  and  fire.  The 
sublime  of  Milton  is  a  calm  and  amazing  grandeur. 
Homer  warms  and  hurries  us  along  ;  Milton  fixes  us  in 
a  state  of  elevation  and  astonishment.  Hopaer's  sub- 
limity appears  most  in  his  description  of  actions  ;  Mil- 
ton's in  that  of  wonderful  and  stupendous  objects. 

But  while  Milton  excels  most  in  sublimity,  his  work 
abounds  in  the  beautiful,  the  pleasing,  and  the  tender. 
"When  the  scene  is  in  Paradise,  the  imagery  is  gay  and 
smiling.  His  descriptions  show  a  fertile  imagination ; 
and  in  his  similes  he  is  remarkably  happy.  If  faulty, 
it  is  from  their  too  frequent  allusions  to  matters  of 
learning,  and  to  ancient  fables.  It  must  also  be  con- 
fessed, that  there  is  a  falling  off  in  the  latter  part  of 
Paradise  Lost. 

The  language  and  versification  of  Milton  have  high 


What  is  Milton's  distinguishing  excellence  ? — How  does  his  sub- 
lUnity  differ  from  that  of  Homer  ? 
What  does  Milton's  work  abound  in  ? 
What  is  said  of  his  language  and  versificatiou  ? 


244 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


merit.  His  blank  verse  is  harmonious  and  diversified ; 
and  his  style  is  full  of  majesty.  There  may  be  found 
indeed  some  prosaic  lines  in  his  poem.  But  in  a 
work  so  long  and  so  harmonious,  these  may  be  for- 
given. 

Paradise  Lost,  amid  beauties  of  every  kind,  has 
many  inequahties.  No  high  and  daring  genius  was 
ever  uniformly  correct.  Milton  is  too  frequently  theo- 
logical and  metaphysical ;  his  words  are  often  tech- 
nical ;  and  he  is  affectedly  ostentatious  of  his  learn- 
ing. Many  of  his  faults,  however,  are  to  be  imputed 
to  the  pedantry  of  his  age.  He  discovers  a  vigour,  a 
grasp  of  genius  equal  to  every  thing  great ;  sometimes 
he  rises  above  every  other  poet;  and  sometimes  he 
falls  below  himself.  , 


LECTURE  XL. 
DRAMATIC  POETEY.  TRAGEDY. 

In  all  civilized  nations  dramatic  poetry  has  been  a 
favourite  amusement.  It  divides  itself  into  the  two 
forms  of  tragedy  and  comedy.  Of  these,  tragedy  is 
the  most  dignified ;  as  great  and  serious  objects  interest 
us  more  than  little  and  ludicrous  ones.  The  former, 
rests  on  the  high  passions,  the  virtues,  crimes,  and 
sufferings  of  mankind ;  the  latter  on  their  humours, 
follies,  and  pleasures;  and  ridicule  is  its  sole  instru- 
ment. 

Tragedy  is  a  direct  imitation  of  human  manners 
and  actions.    It  does  not,  like  an  epic  poem,  exhibit 


What  are  the  faults  of  Milton's  style  ? 
What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

Into  how  many  forms  does  dramatic  poetry  divide  itself  ? — Which 
is  most  dignified,  tragedy  or  comedy  ? — On  what  does  tragedy  rest  ?— 
On  what  does  comedy  rest ' 

In  what  respect  does  tragedy  differ  from  an  epic  poem  ? 


TRAGEDY. 


245 


characters  by  description  or  narration  ;  it  sets  the  per- 
sonages before  us,  and  makes  them  act  and  speak  witt 
propriety.  This  species  of  T\"riting,  therefore,  requires 
deep  knowledge  of  the  human  heart;  and,  when, 
happily  executed,  it  has  the  power  of  raising  the- 
strongest  emotions.  \ 

In  its  general  strain  and  sphit  tragedy  is  favourable 
to  vh'tue.  Charactei-s  of  honour  claim  our  respect  and 
approbation  ;  and,  to  raise  indignation,  we  must  paint 
a  person  in  the  odious  colours  of  vice  and  depra^dty. 
Virtuous  men  indeed  are  often  represented  by  the 
tragic  poet  as  unfortunate ;  for  this  happens  in  real  life. 
But  he  always  engages  our  hearts  in  their  behalf;  and 
never  represents  vice  as  jSnally  triumphant  mid  happy. 
Upon  the  same  principle,  if  bad  men  succeed  in  their 
designs,  they  are  yet  finally  conducted  to  punishment. 
It  may  therefore  be  concluded  that  tragedies  are  moral 
compositions. 

It  is  affirmed  by  Aristotle,  that  the  design  of  tragedy 
is  to  purge  our  passions  by  means  of  pity  and  terror. 
But,  perhaps,  it  would  have  been  more  accurate,  to 
have  said,  that  the  object  of  this  species  of  composition 
is  to  improve  our  vhtuous  sensibility.  If  a  writer 
excite  our  pity  for  the  afiflicted,  inspire  us  with  proper 
sentiments  on  beholding  the  vicissitudes  of  fife,  and 
stimulate  us  to  avoid  the  misfortunes  of  others  by 
exhibiting  their  eiTors,  he  has  accomplished  aU  the 
moral  purposes  of  tragedy. 

In  a  tragedy  it  is  necessary  to  have  an  interesting 
story,  and  that  the  writer  conduct  it  in  a  natural  and' 
probable  manner.  For  the  end  of  tragedy  is  not  so 
much  to  elevate  the  imagination  as  to  afiect  the  heait. 
This  principle,  which  is  founded  on  the  clearest  reason, 
excludes  from  tragedy  all  machinery,  or  fabulous  in' 
lervention  of  gods.    Ghosts  alone,  from  their  founda 


Are  tragedies  moral  compositions  ? 

■When,  are  the  moral  purposes  of  tragedy  accomplished  ? 
Should  machinery  be  excluded  from  tragt>dy  ? 

21^ 


246 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


tion  in  popular  belief,  have  maintained  their  place  in 
tragedy. 

To  promote  an  impression  of  probability,  the  story 
of  a  tragedy,  according  to  some  critics,  should  never 
be  a  pure  fiction,  but  ought  to  be  built  on  real  facts 
This,  however,  is  carrying  the  matter  too  far.  For  a 
fictitious  tale,  if  properly  conducted,  will  melt  the 
heart  as  much  as  real  history.  Hence,  the  tragic  poet 
mixes  many  fictitious  circumstances  with  well  known 
facts.  Most  readers  never  think  of  separating  the 
historical  from  the  fabulous.  They  attend  only  to 
what  is  probable,  and  are  touched  by  events,  that 
resemble  nature.  Accordingly  some  of  the  most  affect- 
ing tragedies  are  entirely  fictitious  in  their  subjects. 
Such  are  the  Fair  Penitent,  Douglas,  and  the  Orphan. 

In  its  origin,  tragedy  was  rude  and  imperfect 
Among  the  Greeks  it  was  at  first  nothing  more  than 
the  song,  which  was  s.^ig  at  the  festival  of  Bacchus. 
These  songs  were  sometimes  sung  by  the  whole  com- 
pany, and  sometimes  by  separate  bands  answering 
alternately  to  each  other,  and  making  a  chorus.  To 
give  this  entertainment  some  variety,  Thespis,  who 
lived  about  five  hundred  years  before  the  Christian 
era,  introduced  a  person  between  the  songs,  who 
made  a  recitation  in  verse.  Eschylus,  who  hved  fifty 
years  after  him,  introduced  a  dialogue  between  two 
persons  or  actors,  comprehending  some  interesting 
story;  and  placed  them  on  a  stage  adorned  with 
scenery.  The  drama  now  began  to  assume  a  regular 
form;  and  was  soon  after  brought  to  perfection  by 
Sophocles  and  Euripides. 

It  thus  appears  that  the  chorus  was  the  foundation 
of  tragedy.  But,  what  is  remarkable,  the  dramatic 
dialogue,  which  was  only  an  addition  to  it,  at  length 
became  the  principal  part  of  the  entertainment ;  and 


Is  it  necessary  that  the  story  of  a  tragedy  be  built  on  real  facts  ? 

How  has  tragedy  been  gradually  improving  ? 

What  was  the  foundation  of  tragedy  ? — What  is  remarkable  ? 


TRAGEDY. 


247 


the  chorus,  losing  ite  dignity,  came  to  be  accounted 
only  an  accessary  in  tragedy.  At  last,  in  modern 
tragedy,  it  has  entirely  disappeared ;  and  its  absence 
from  the  stage,  forms  the  chief  distinction  between 
the  ancient  and  modern  drama. 

The  chorus,  it  must  be  allowed,  rendered  tragedy 
more  magnificent,  instructive,  and  moral.  But,  ou 
the  other  hand,  it  was  unnatural,  and  lessened  the 
interest  of  the  piece.  It  removed  the  representation 
from  the  resemblance  of  life.  It  has  accordingly  been 
with  propriety  excluded  from  the  stage. 

The  three  unities  of  action,  place,  and  time,  have 
been  considered  as  essential  to  the  proper  conduct  of 
dramatic  fable.  Of  these  three,  unity  of  action  is 
undoubtedly  most  important.  This  consists  in  the 
relation  which  all  the  incidents  introduced,  bear  to 
some  design  or  effect,  combining  them  naturally  into 
one  whole.  This  unity  of  subject  is  most  essential  to 
tragedy.  For  a  multiphcity  of  plots,  by  distracting 
the  attention,  prevents  the  passions  fi'om  rising  to  any 
height.  Hence  the  absurdity  of  two  independent 
actions  in  the  same  play.  There  may  indeed  be 
imderplots ;  but  the  poet  should  make  these  subser- 
vient to  the  main  action.  They  should  conspire  to 
bring  forward  the  catastraphe  of  the  play. 

Of  a  separate  and  independent  action,  or  intrigtie, 
there  is  a  clear  example  in  Addison's  Cato.  The 
subject  of  this  tragedy  is  the  death  of  Cato,  a  noble 
personage,  and  supported  by  the  author  with  much 
digiiity.  But  all  the  love  scenes  in  the  play  ;  the  pas- 
sion of  Cato's  two  sons  for  Lucia,  and  that  of  Juba  for 
Cato's  daughter,  are  mere  episodes.    They  break  the 


What  advantages  were  derived  from  the  chorus  ? — Was  it  ser- 
riceable  ? 

Have  the  three  unities  been  considered  as  essential  to  the  proper 
conduct  of  dramatic  fable  ?— Which  is  the  most  important  of  the 
three  ? — This  consists  in  what  ? — Why  is  unity  of  subject  essential 
t-o  tragedy  ? 

What  is  observed  of  Addisoa's  Cato  ? 


248 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


unity  of  the  subject,  and  form  a  very  unseasonable 
""unction  of  gallantry,  with  high  sentiments  of  pa- 
triotism. 

Unity  of  action  must  not,  however,  be  confounded 
with  simplicity  of  plot.  Unity  and  simplicity  import 
different  things  in  dramatic  composition.  The  plot  is 
simple,  when  a  small  number  of  incidents  is  intro-' 
duced  into  it.  With  respect  to  plots,  the  ancientXA 
were  more  simple  than  the  moderns.  The  Greek  tra- 
gedies appear  indeed  to  be  too  naked,  and  destitute  of 
interesting  events.  The  moderns  admit  a  much  great- 
er variety  of  incidents  ;  which  is  certainly  an  improve- 
ment, as  it  renders  the  entertainment  more  animated 
and  more  instructive.  It  may,  however,  be  carried 
too  far  ;  for  an  overcharge  of  action  and  intrigue  pro- 
duces perplexity  and  embarrassment.  Of  this,  the 
Mourning  Bride  of  Congreve  is  an  exam23le.  The  in- 
cidents succeed  each  other  too  rapidly  ;  and  the  catas- 
trophe, which  ought  to  be  plain  and  simple,  is  artificial 
and  intricate. 

Unity  of  action  must  be  maintained,  not  only  in  the 
general  construction  of  the  fable,  but  in  all  the  acta 
and  scenes  of  the  play.  The  division  of  every  play 
into  five  acts  is  founded  merely  on  common  practice, 
and  the  authority  of  Horace. 

Neve  minor,  neu  sit  quinto  productior  acta 
Fabula. 

There  is  nothing  in  nature  which  fixes  this  rule. 
On  the  Greek  stage  the  division  by  acts  was  unknown. 
The  word  act  never  occurs  once  in  the  Poetics  of 
Aristotle.  Practice,  however,  has  established  this 
division  ;  and  the  poet  must  be  careful  that  each  act 
terminate  in  a  proper  place.  The  fii'st  act  should 
contain  a  clear  exposition  of  the  subject.  It  should 
excite  curiosity,  and  introduce  the  personages  to  the 

How  are  unity  of  action  and  simplicity  of  plot  distinguished  ? 

Should  unity  of  action  be  maintained  throughout  the  play  ? — Hott 
is  it,  that  every  play  is  divided  into  five  acts  ?— How  should  the  acta 
terminate  ? 


TRAGEDY. 


240 


ncquaintance  of  the  spectators.  During  the  second, 
thh'd,  and  fourth  acts,  the  plots  should  gi-adually 
thicken.  The  passions  should  be  kept  constantly 
awake.  There  should  be  no  scenes  of  idle  conver- 
sation or  mere  declamation.  The  suspense  and  con 
cern  of  the  spectators  should  be  excited  more  ana 
more.  This  is  the  great  excellency  of  Shakspeare. 
Sentknent,  passion,  pity,  and  terror,  should  pervade 
every  tragedy. 

In  the  fifth  act,  which  is  the  seat  of  the  catastrophe, 
the  author  should  most  fully  display  his  art  and  ge- 
nius. The  first  requisite  is,  that  the  unravelling  of  the 
plot  be  brought  about  by  probable  and  natural  means. 
Secondly,  the  catastrophe  should  be  simple,  depend- 
ing on  few  events  and  including  but  few  persons. 
Passionate  sensibility  languishes  when  divided  among 
many  objects.  Lastly,  in  the  catastrophe,  every  thing 
should  be  warm  and  glowing  ;  and  the  poet  must  be 
simple,  serious,  and  pathetic ;  using  no  language  but 
that  of  nature. 

It  is  not  essential  to  the  catastrophe  of  a  tragedy 
that  it  end  happily.  Sufi[icient  distress  and  agitation, 
with  many  tender  emotions,  may  be  raised  in  the 
course  of  the  play.  But  in  general  the  spirit  of  tra- 
gedy leans  to  the  side  of  leaving  the  impression  of 
\artuous  sorrow  strong  upon  the  mind. 

A  curious  question  here  occurs ;  how  happens  it, 
that  the  emotions  of  sorrow  in  tragedy  aftbrd  gratifi 
cation  to  the  mind  ?  It  seems  to  be  the  constitution  of 
our  nature,  that  all  the  social  passions  should  be  at- 
tended with  pleasure.  Hence  nothing  is  more  pleas- 
ing than  love  and  friendship.  Pity  is,  for  wise  ends,  a 
strong  instinct ;  and  it  necessarily  produces  some  dis- 
tress on  account  of  its  sympathy  with  sufferers.  The 


What  is  said  on  the  subject  of  the  catastrophe? 
Is  it  essential  to  the  catastrophe  of  a  tragedy  that  it  end  happily  ? 
How  happens  it.  that  the  emotions  of  sorrow  in  tragedy  afford 
gratification  to  the  mind  ? 


250 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


heart  is  at  the  same  moment  warmed  by  kindness,  and 
afflicted  by  distress.  Upon  the  whole,  the  state  of  the 
mind  is  agreeable.  We  are  pleased  with  ourselves, 
not  only  for  our  benevolence,  but  for  our  sensibility. 
The  pain  of  sympathy  is  also  diminished  by  recollect- 
ing that  the  distress  is  not  real ;  and  by  the  power  of 
action  and  sentiment,  of  language  and  poetry. 

After  treating  of  the  acts  of  a  play  it  is  proper  to 
notice  the  scenes.  The  entrance  of  a  new  person 
upon  the  stage  forms  what  is  called  a  new  scene. 
These  scenes  or  successive  conversations,  should  be 
closely  connected  ;  and  much  of  the  art  of  dramatic 
composition  consists  in  maintaining  this  connexion. 
For  this  purpose  two  rules  must  be  observed.  1. 
During  the  course  of  one  act,  the  stage  should  never 
be  left  empty  a  moment,  for  this  would  make  a  gap  in 
the  representation.  Whenever  the  stage  is  evacuated, 
the  act  is  closed.  This  rule  is  generally  observed  by 
French  tragedians ;  but  it  is  much  neglected  by  the 
English.  2.  No  person  should  come  upon  the  stage, 
or  leave  it,  without  some  apparent  reason.  If  this 
rule  be  neglected,  the  dramatis  personse  are  little 
better  than  so  many  puppets  ;  for  the  drama  professes 
imitation  of  real  transactions. 

To  unity  of  action,  critics  have  added  the  unities  of 
time  and  place.  Unity  of  place,  requires  the  scene 
never  to  be  shifted  ;  that  the  action  of  the  play  con- 
tinue in  the  same  place  where  it  began.  Unity  of 
time,  strictly  taken,  requires  that  the  time  of  the  ac- 
tion be  no  longer  than  the  time  allowed  for  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  play.  Aristotle,  however,  permits  the 
action  to  comprehend  a  whole  day.  These  rules  are 
intended  to  bring  the  imitation  nearer  to  reality. 

Among  the  Greeks  there  was  no  division  of  acts. 
In  modern  times  the  practice  has  prevailed  of  sus- 


How  should  the  scenes  he  conducted  ? — What  rules  must  be  ob* 
served  in  order  to  maintain  the  connexion  ? 
What  is  required  by  unity  of  place,  and  unity  of  time  ? 


TEAGEDY. 


251 


pending  the  spectacle  some  little  time  between  tlie 
acts.  This  practice  gives  latitude  to  the  imagination, 
and  renders  strict  confinement  to  time  and  place  less 
necessary.  Upon  this  account,  therefore,  too  strict  an 
observance  of  these  unities  should  not  be  preferred  to 
higher  beauties  of  execution,  nor  to  the  introduction 
of  more  pathetic  situations.  But  transgressions  of 
these  unities,  though  they  may  be  often  advantageous, 
ought  not  to  be  too  frequent,  nor  violent.  Hurrying 
the  spectator  from  one  distant  city  to  another,  or 
making  several  days  or  weeks  pass  during  the  repre- 
sentation, would  shock  the  imagination  too  much,  and 
therefore  cannot  be  allowed  in  a  dramatic  witer. 

Ha^^ng  examined  dramatic  action,  we  shall  now 
attend  to  the  characters,  most  proper  to  be  exhibited 
in  a  tragedy.  Several  critics  affirm  that  the  nature 
of  a  tragedy  requires  the  principal  personages  to  be 
always  of  high  or  princely  rank ;  as  the  suft'erings  of 
such  persons  seize  the  heart  most  forcibly.  But  this 
is  more  specious  than  solid.  For  the  distresses  of 
Desdemona,  Monimia,  and  Belvidera,  interest  us  as 
much,  as  if  they  had  been  princesses  or  queens.  It  is 
suflQcient,  that  in  tragedy  there  be  nothing  degrading 
or  mean  in  the  personages  exhibited.  High  rank  may 
render  the  spectacle  more  splendid  ;  but  it  is  the  tale 
itself,  and  the  art  of  the  poet,  that  makes  it  interesting 
and  pathetic. 

In  describing  his  characters,  the  poet  should  be 
careful  so  to  order  the  incidents,  which  relate  to  them, 
as  to  impress  the  spectators  with  favourable  ideas  of  = 
virtue,  and  of  the  di^^ne  administration.  Pity  should 
be  raised  for  the  virtuous  in  distress  ;  and  the  author 
should  studiously  beware  of  making  such  represen- 
tations of  life,  as  would  render  virtue  an  object  of 
aversion. 

Ought  a  strict  observance  of  these  unities  to  be  preferred  to  high* 
er  beauties  of  execution  ? 
What  quality  of  personages  does  the  nature  of  tragedy  require  ? 
In  describing  characters,  how  should  the  incidents  be  ordered  ' 


252 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


Unmixed  characters,  either  of  good  or  ill  men,  are 
not,  in  the  opinion  of  Aristotle,  fit  for  tragedy.  For 
the  distresses  of  the  former,  as  unmerited,  hurt  us ;  and 
the  sufferings  of  the  latter  excite  no  compassion. 
Mixed  charactei^  afford  the  best  field  for  displaying, 
without  injury  to  morals,  the  vicissitudes  of  life. 
They  interest  us  the  most  deeply  ;  and  their  distresses 
are  most  instructive,  when  represented  as  springing 
out  of  their  own  passions,  or  as  originating  in  some 
weakness,  incident  to  human  nature. 

The  Greek  tragedies  are  often  founded  on  mere 
destiny  and  inevitable  misfortunes.  Modern  tragedy 
aims  at  a  higher  object,  and  takes  a  wider  range  ;  as 
it  shows  the  direful  effects  of  ambition,  jealousy,  love, 
resentment,  and  of  every  strong  emotion.  But  of  all 
the  passions  which  furnish  matter  for  tragedy,  love  has 
most  occupied  the  modern  stages.  To  the  an-cient 
theatre,  love  was  almost  unknown.  This  proceeded 
from  the  national  mannei*s  of  the  Greeks,  which 
encouraged  a  greater  separation  of  the  sexes,  than 
takes  place  in  modern  times;  and  did  not  admit 
female  actors  \ipon  the  ancient  stage  ;  a  circumstance, 
which  operated  against  the  introduction  of  love  stories. 
No  soHd  reason,  however,  can  be  assigned  for  this 
predominancy  of  love  upon  the  stage.  Indeed  it  not 
only  limits  the  natural  extent  of  tragedy,  but  degrades 
its  majesty.  Mixing  it  with  the  great  and  solemn 
revolutions  of  human  fortune,  tends  to  give  tragedy 
'the  air  of  gallantry  and  juvenile  entertainment.  With- 
out any  assistance  from  love,  the  drama  is  capable  of 
producing  its  highest  effects  upon  the  mind. 

Besides  the  arrangement  of  his  subject,  and  the 
conduct  of  his  personages,  the  tragic  poet  must  attend 
to  the  propriety  of  his  sentiments.    These  must  be 

Are  unmixed  characters  fit  for  tragedy  ? 

What  are  the  Greek  tragedies  founded  on  ? — How  does  modern 
tragedy  aim  at  a  higher  object  ? — Is  it  necessary  that  love  occupy 
the  principal  part  in  tragedy  ? 

In  -sFhat  manner  should  the  poet  manage  his  sentiments ' 


TKAGEDY. 


253 


suited  to  the  characters  of  the  persons,  to  whom  thej 
are  attributed,  and  to  the  situations,  in  which  thej  are 
placed.  It  is  chiefly  in  the  pathetic  parts,  that  the 
difficulty  and  importance  of  this  rule  are  greatest. 
We  go  to  a  tragedy,  expecting  to  be  moved  ;  and,  if 
the  poet  cannot  reach  the  heart,  he  has  no  tragic 
merit ;  and  we  return  cold  and  disappointed  h-om  the 
performance. 

To  paint,  and  to  excite  passion  strongly,  are  prero- 
gatives of  genius.  They  require  not  only  ardent  sensi- 
bility, but  the  power  of  entering  deeply  into  characters. 
It  Ls  here,  that  cancUdates  for  the  drama  are  least 
successful.  A  man,  under  the  agitation  of  passion, 
makes  known  his  feehngs  in  the  glowing  language 
of  sensibility.  He  does  not  coolly  describe  what  his 
feelings  are ;  yet  this  sort  of  secondary  description, 
tragic  poets  often  give  us,  instead  of  the  primary  and 
native  language  of  passion.  Thus  in  Addison's  Cato, 
when  Lucia  confesses  to  Fortius  her  love  for  him,  but 
sweaK  that  she  wih  never  maiTy  him ;  Fortius, 
instead  of  giving  way  to  the  language  of  giief  and 
astonishment,  only  describes  his  feehng-s  ; 

Fix'd  in  astonishment,  I  gaze  npon  thee, 
Like  one  jnst  blasted  bv  a  stroke  from  heaven, 
"Who  pants  for  breath,  and  stiffens  yet  alive 
In  dreadful  looks  ;  a  monument  of  -wrath. 

This  might  have  proceeded  from  a  bystander  or  an 
indifferent  person  ;  but  it  is  altogether  improper  in  the 
mouth  of  Fortius.  Similar  to  this  descriptive  language, 
are  the  imnatural  and  forced  thoughts  which  tragic 
poets  sometimes  employ,  .  o  exaggerate  the  feehngs  of 
persons,  whom  they  wish  to  paint,  as  strongly  moved.  * 
Thus,  when  Jane  Shore  on  meeting  her  husband  in 
distress,  and  finding  that  he  had  forgiven  her,  calls  on 
the  rains  to  give  her  their  di'ops,  and  to  the  springs  to 
lend  her  their  streams,  that  she  may  have  a  constant 

What  are  prerogatives  of  genius  ?— What  do  they  require  ?— How 
does  a  man.  under  the  agitation  of  passion,  make  knowTi  t.is  feelijigs 
What  is  observed  of  the  description  of  Jane  Shore  ? 

22 


254 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


supply  of  tears ;  we  see  plainly  tliat  it  is  not  Jane 
Shore  that  speaks;  but  the  poet  himself,  who  is 
straining  his  fancy,  and  spurring  up  his  genius  to  say 
something  uncommonly  strong  and  lively. 

The  language  of  real  passion  is  always  plain  and 
simple.  It  abounds  in  figures  that  express  a  disturbed 
and  impetuous  state  of  mind,  but  never  employs  any 
for  parade  and  embellishment.  Thoughts,  suggested 
by  passion,  are  natural  and  ob\'ious  ;  and  not  the  off 
spring  of  refinement,  subtilty,  and  wit.  Passion  nei- 
ther reasons,  speculates,  nor  declaims;  its  language 
is  short,  broken,  and  interrupted.  The  French  trage- 
dians deal  too  much  in  refinement  and  declamation. 
The  Greek  tragedians  adhere  most  to  nature,  and  are 
most  pathetic.  This,  too,  is  the  great  excellency  of 
Shakspeare.  He  exhibits  the  true  language  of  nature 
and  passion. 

Moral  sentiments  and  reflections  ought  not  to  recur 
very  frequently  in  tragedy.  When  unseasonably 
crowded,  they  lose  their  effect,  and  convey  an  air  of 
ipedantry.  When  introduced  ^vith  propriety,  they 
give  dignity  to  the  composition.  Cardinal  Wolsey's 
soliloquy  on  his  fall,  is  a  fine  instance  of  the  felicity 
with  which  they  may  be  employed.  Much  of  the 
merit  of  Addison's  Cato  depends  on  that  moral  turn 
of  thought  which  distinguishes  it. 

The  style  and  versification  of  tragedy  should  be 
free,  easy,  and  varied.  English  blank  verse  is  happily 
suited  to  this  species  of  composition.  It  has  sufficien 
majesty,  and  can  descend  to  the  simple  and  familiar 
it  admits  a  happy  variety  of  cadence,  and  is  free  from 
the  constraint  and  monotony  of  rhyme.  Of  the  French 
tragedies  it  is  a  gi^eat  misfortime,  that  they  are  always 
in  rhyme.    For  it  fetters  the  freedom  of  the  tragic 


What  is  the  most  suitable  language  for  tragedy  ? 
What  is  said  of  moral  sentiments  and  reflections  ? 
What  should  be  the  style  and  versification  of  tragedy  ? — Which  is 
best  adapted  to  tragedy,  blank  verse  or  rhyme  ? 


GREEK  TRAGEDY. 


255 


dialogue,  fills  it  with  a  languid  monotony,  and  is  fatal 
to  the  power  of  passion. 

With  regard  to  these  splendid  comparisons  in 
rhyme,  and  those  strings  of  couplets,  with  which  it 
was  some  time  ago  fashionable  to  conclude  the  acts 
of  a  tragedy,  and  .sometimes  the  most  interesting 
scenes;  they  are  now  laid  aside,  and  regarded  not 
only  as  childish  ornaments,  but  as  perfect  barbarisms. 


LECTURE  XLI. 
GREEK  TRAGEDY. 

The  plot  of  Greek  tragedy  was  exceedingly  sim- 
ple ;  the  incidents  few ;  and  the  conduct  very  exact 
with  regard  to  the  unities  of  action,  time,  and  place. 
Machinery,  or  the  intervention  of  gods,  was  employed ; 
and,  what  was  very  faulty,  the  final  unravelling  was 
sometimes  made  to  turn  upon  it.  Love,  one  or  two 
instances  excepted,  was  never  admitted  into  Greek 
ti'agedy.  A  vein  of  morahty  and  religion  always 
runs  through  it ;  but  they  employed,  less  than  the 
moderns,  the  combat  of  the  passions.  Their  plots 
were  all  taken  from  the  ancient  traditionary  stories  of 
their  own  nation. 

Eschylus,  the  father  of  Greek  tragedy,  exhibits 
both  the  beauties  and  defects  of  an  early  original 
\vriter.  He  is  bold,  nervous,  and  animated  ;  but  very 
obscure,  and  difficult  to  be  understood.  His  style  is 
highly  metaphorical,  and  often  harsh  and  tumid.  Ha 
abounds  in  martial  ideas  and  descriptions,  has  much 
fii'e  and  elevation,  and  httle  tenderness.  He  also 
dehghts  in  the  marveUous. 

What  are  now  laid  aside  as  childish  ornaments  ? 

"What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 
What  are  the  author's  remarks  on  Greek  tragedy  ? 
Who  was  the  father  of  Greek  tragedy  ?— For  what  is  Eschylus  dia- 
cinguished  ? 


256 


FRENCH  TRAGEDl. 


The  most  masterly  of  the  Greek  tragedians  is  So- 
phocles. He  is  the  most  correct  in  the  conduct  of  his 
subjects  ;  the  most  just  and  sublime  in  his  sentiments. 
In  descriptive  talents  he  is  also  eminent.  Euripides 
is  accounted  more  tender  than  Sophocles  ;  he  is  fuller 
of  moral  sentiments  ;  but  he  is  less  correct  in  the  con 
duct  of  his  plays.  His  expositions  of  his  subjects  are 
less  artful ;  and  the  songs  of  his  chorus,  though  very 
poetic,  are  less  connected  with  the  principal  action, 
than  those  of  Sophocles.  Both  of  them,  however, 
have  high  merit,  as  tragic  poets.  Their  style  is  ele- 
gant and  beautiful ;  and  their  sentiments  for  the 
most  part,  just.  They  speak  with  the  voice  of  nature ; 
and  in  the  midst  of  simplicity,  they  are  touching  and 
interesting. 

Theatrical  representation,  on  the  stages  of  Greece 
and  Rome,  was  in  many  respects  very  singular,  and 
widely  difterent  from  that  of  modern  times.  The 
songs  of  the  chorus  were  accompanied  by  instrumental 
music ;  and  the  dialogue  part  had  a  modulation  of 
its  own,  and  might  be  set  to  notes.  It  has  also  been 
thought,  that  on  the  Roman  stage,  the  pronouncing 
and  gesticulating  parts  were  sometimes  divided,  and 
performed  by  different  actovs.  The  actors  in  tragedy 
wore  a  long  robe ;  they  were  raised  upon  cothurni, 
and  played  in  masks  ;  these  masks  were  painted ; 
and  the  actor,  by  turning  the  different  profiles,  ex- 
hibited different  emotions  to  the  auditors.  This 
contrivance,  however,  was  attended  by  many  dis- 
advantages. 

FRENCH  TRAGEDY. 

In  the  compositions  of  some  French  dramatic 
writers,  tragedy  has  appeared  with  great  lustre  ;  par- 


Who  is  the  most  masterly  of  the  Greek  tragedians  ? — What  are  the 
merits  of  Sophocles? — What  is  said  of  Euripides  ? 

How  did  theatrical  representation  on  the  stages  of  Greece  and 
Rome  differ  from  that  of  modern  times  ? 


FRENCH  TRAGEDY. 


257 


ticularly  Corneille,  Racine,  and  Yoltaii'e.  Tliey  have 
improved  upon  the  ancients,  "by  inti'oduciug  more 
incidents,  a  greater  variety  of  passions,  and  a  fuller 
display  of  cliaracters.  Like  the  ancients,  they  excel 
in  regidarity  of  conduct ;  and  their  style  is  poetical 
and  elegant.  But  to  an  Enghsh  taste,  they  want 
strength  and  passion,  and  are  too  declamatoiy  and 
refined.  Thev  seem  afi-aid  of  beino;  too  traoic  :  and 
it  was  the  opinion  of  Voltaire,  that,  to  the  perfection 
of  tragedy,  it  is  necessary  to  unite  the  vehemence  and 
action  of  the  Enghsh  theatre,  with  the  correctness  and 
decorum  of  the  French. 

Corneille,  the  father  of  French  tragedy,  is  distin- 
guished by  majesty  of  sentiment,  and  a  fruitful  ima- 
gination. His  genius  was  rich,  but  more  turned  to 
the  epic,  than  the  tragic  vein.  He  is  magnificent  and 
splendid,  rather  than  touching  and  tender.  He  is  full 
of  declamation,  impetuous  and  extravagant. 

In  tragedy,  Racine  is  superior  to  Corneille.  Hq 
wants,  indeed,  the  copiousness  of  Corneille ;  but  he 
is  free  from  his  bombast,  and  excels  him  greatly  in 
tenderness.  The  beauty  of  his  lano-uao-e  and  versifi- 
cation  is  uncommon  ;  and  he  has  managed  his  rhymes 
with  superior  advantage. 

Voltaire  is  not  inferior  to  his  predecessoi'S  in  the 
drama  ;  and  in  one  article  he  has  outdone  them ;  the 
dehcate  and  interesting  situations  he  has  introduced. 
Here  lies  his  chief  strength.  Like  his  predecessors, 
however,  he  is  sometimes  deficient  in  force,  and  some- 
times too  declamatoiy.  His  characters  notwithstand- 
ing, are  drawn  with  spirit,  his  events  are  striking,  and 
his  sentiments  elevated. 


Who  are  the  most  successful  French  dramatic  writers  ? — By  what 
means  have  they  improTed  upon  the  ancients  ? 
By  what  is  Corneille  distinguished  ? 
What  are  the  comparatiye  merits  of  Eacine  ? 
Wliat  is  said  of  VUtaire  ? 

22* 


[  258  ] 


ENGLISH  TRAGEDY. 

It  lias  often  been  remarked  of  tragedy  in  Great 
Britain,  that  it  is  more  ardent  tlian  that  of  France, 
but  more  irregular  and  incorrect.  It  has,  therefore, 
excelled  in  the  soul  of  tragedy.  For  the  pathetic 
must  be  allowed  to  be  the  chief  excellence  of  the 
tragic  muse. 

The  first  object  on  the  English  theatre,  is  the  gTcat 
Shakspeare.  In  extent  and  force  of  genius,  both  for 
tragedy  and  comedy,  he  is  unrivalled.  But  at  the 
same  time,  it  is  genius  shooting  wild,  deficient  in 
taste,  not  always  chaste,  and  unassisted  by  art  and 
knowledge.  Criticism  has  been  exhausted  in  com- 
mentaries upon  him ;  yet,  to  this  day,  it  is  undecided, 
whether  his  beauties  or  defects  be  greatest.  In  his 
writings  there  are  admirable  scenes  and  passages 
without  number ;  but  there  is  not  one  of  his  plays 
which  can  be  pronounced  a  good  one.  Besides  ex- 
treme irregularities  in  conduct,  and  grotesque  mix- 
tures of  the  serious  and  comic,  we  are  frequently  dis- 
turbed by  unnatural  thoughts,  harsh  expressions,  and 
a  certain  obscure  bombast,  and  play  upon  words. 
These  faults  are,  however,  compensated  by  two  of 
the  greatest  excellencies  a  tragic  poet  can  possess, 
his  lively  and  diversified  painting  of  character,  and 
his  strong  and  natural  expressions  of  passion.  On 
these  two  virtues  his  merit  rests.  In  the  midst  of  his 
absurdities  he  interests  and  moves  us  ;  so  great  is  his 
skill  in  human  nature,  and  so  lively  his  representa- 
tions of  it. 

He  possesses  also  the  merit  of  having  created  for 
himself,  a  world  of  preternatural  beings.  His  witches, 
ghosts,  fairies,  and  spirits  of  all  kinds,  are  so  awful, 
mysterious,  and  pecuhar,  as  strongly  to  affect  the 


Wliat  has  been  remarked  of  tragedy  in  Great  Britain  ? 
Who  is  the  first  object  on  the  English  theatre  ? — What  are  Shaks* 
peare's  merits  ? 


ENGLISH  TRAGEDY. 


259 


imagination.  His  two  masterpieces  are  liis  Otliello 
and  Macbeth.  With  regard  to  his  historical  plays, 
thev  are  neither  tragedies  nor  comeches  ;  but  a  pecu- 
liar species  of  dramatic  entertainment,  in  which  he 
describes  the  charactei-s,  events,  and  manners  of  the 
times  of  which  h-e  treats.  i 

Since  Shakspeare,  there  are  few  English  dramatia  ^ 
writers,  whose  whole  works  are  entitled  to  high 
praise.  There  are  several  tragedies,  however,  of  con- 
siderable merit.  Lee's  Theodosius  has  warmth  and 
tenderness,  though  romantic  in  the  plan,  and  extrava- 
gant in  the  sentiments.  Otway  is  great  in  his  Orphan 
and  Venice  Preserved.  Perhaps,  however,  he  is  too 
tragic  in  these  pieces.  He  had  genius  and  strong 
passions,  but  was  very  indelicate. 

The  tragedies  of  Rowe  abound  in  morality,  and  in 
elevated  sentiments.  His  poetry  is  good,  and  his  lan- 
guage pure  and  elegant.  He  is,  notwithstanding,  too 
cold  and  uninteresting  ;  and  flowery  rather  than  tra- 
gic. His  best  dramas  are  Jane  Shore  and  the  Fair 
Penitent,  which  excel  in  the  tender  and  pathetic. 

Dr.  Young's  Revenge  discovei^s  genius  and  fire ; 
but  wants  tenderness,  and  turns  too  much  on  the  dhe- 
fnl  passions.  In  the  Mom-ning  Bride  of  CongTCve, 
there  are  fine  situations  and  much  good  poetry.  The 
tragedies  of  Thomson  are  too  full  of  a  stiff  morahty, 
which  rendei^  them  duU  and  formal.  His  Tancred 
and  Sigismunda  is  his  masterpiece  ;  and  for  the  plot, 
characters,  and  sentiments,  justly  deserves  a  place 
among  the  best  English  tragedies. 

A  Greek  tragedy  is  a  simple  relation  of  an  interest- 
ing incident.  A  French  tragedy  is  a  series  of  artful 
and  refined  conversations.  An.Enghsh  tragedy  is  a 
combat  of  strong  passions,  set  before  us  in  aU  their 

Which  of  Shakspeare's  plays  are  his  masterpieces  ? 

What  is  said  of  dramatic  writers  since  Shakspeare  ? — What  are 
their  merits  and  defects  ? 

Define  a  Greek  tragedy — A  French  tragedy — An  English  tragedy 
—Ancient  tragedies. 


260 


COMEDY. 


violence,  producing  deep  disasters,  and  filling  tlie 
spectators  with  grief.  Ancient  tragedies  are  more 
natural  and  simple ;  modern  more  artful  and  complex. 


LECTURE  XLII. 
COMEDY. 

The  strain  and  spirit  of  comedy,  discriminate  it 
sufficiently  from  tragedy.  While  pity,  terror,  and  the 
other  strong  passions  form  the  province  of  the  latter, 
the  sole  instrument  of  the  former  is  ridicule.  FoUies 
and  vices,  and  whatever  in  the  human  character  is 
improper,  or  exposes  to  censure  and  ridicule,  are 
objects  of  comedy.  As  a  satirical  exhibition  of  the 
improprieties  and  follies  of  men,  it  is  useful  and  moral. 
It  is  commendable  by  this  species  of  composition,  to 
coiTect,  and  to  polish  the  manners  of  men.  Many 
vices  are  more  successfully  exploded  by  ridicule,  than 
by  serious  arguments.  It  is  possible,  however,  to 
employ  ridicule  improperly ;  and  by  its  operation  to 
do  mischief  instead  of  good.  For  ridicule  is  far  from 
being  a  proper  test  of  truth.  Licentious  writers  there- 
fore, of  the  comic  class,  have  often  cast  ridicule  on 
objects  and  characters  which  did  not  deserve  it.  But 
this  is  not  the  fault  of  comedy,  but  of  the  turn  and 
genius  of  certain  writers.  In  the  hands  of  loose  men, 
comedy  will  mislead  and  corrupt ;  but  in  those  of  vir- 
tuous writers,  it  is  not  only  a  gay  and  innocent,  but  a 
laudable  and  useful  entertainment.  Enghsh  comedy, 
however,  is  frequently  a  school  of  vice. 

The  rules  of  dram'atic  action,  that  were  prescribed 
for  tragedy,  belong  also  to  comedy.    A  comic  writer 

What  is  the  subject  of  this  lecture  ? 

How  is  comedy  discriminated  from  tragedy  ? — What  are  objects 
of  comedy  ?— How  is  comedy  useful  ? — Can  ridicule  be  employed 
improperly  ? — What  is  said  of  English  comedy  ? 


COMEDF. 


261 


must  observe  the  unities  of  action,  time  and  place. 
He  must  attend  to  nature  and  probability.  The 
imitation  of  manners  ought  to  be  even  more  exact  in 
comedy  than  in  tragedy ;  for  the  subjects  of  comedy 
are  more  familiar  and  better  known. 

The  subjects  of  tragedy  are  confined  to  no  age  nor 
country ;  but  it  is  otherwise  in  comedy.  For  the 
decorums  of  behaviour,  and  the  nice  discriminations  of 
character,  which  are  the  subjects  of  comedy,  change 
with  time  and  country ;  and  are  never  so  well  under- 
stood by  foreigners  as  by  natives.  We  weep  for  the 
heroes  of  Greece  and  Rome ;  but  we  are  touched  by 
the  ridicule  of  such  manners  and  characters  only,  as 
we  see  and  know.  The  scene  therefore  of  comedy 
should  always  be  laid  in  the  author's  own  country  and 
age.  The  comic  poet  catches  the  manners  living,  as 
they  rise. 

It  is  true,  indeed,  that  Plautus  and  Terence  did  not 
follow  this  rule.  The  scene  of  their  comedies  is  laid 
in  Greece,  and  they  adopted  the  Greek  laws  and  cus- 
toms. But  it  is  to  be  remembered,  that  comedy  was 
in  their  age,  a  new  entertainment  in  Rome,  and  that 
they  were  contented  with  the  praise  of  translating 
Menander  and  other  comic  writers  of  Greece.  In 
posterior  times  the  Romans  had  the  "  Comedia  Toga- 
ta,"  or  what  was  founded  on  their  own  manners, 
as  well  as  the  "  Comedia  Palhata,"  which  was  taken 
from  the  Greeks. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  comedy,  that  of  character 
and  that  of  intrigue.  In  the  last,  the  plot  or  action  of 
the  play  is  the  principal  object.  In  the  first,  the  dis- 
play of  a  peculiar  character  is  the  chief  point ;  and  to 
this  the  action  is  subordinate.    The  French  abound 


What  should  a  comic  writer  observe  and  attend  to  ' 
Are  the  subjects  of  tragedy  confined  to  any  age  or  country  ?— 
How  is  it  in  oomedy  ? — Why  ? 
Who  have  not  followed  this  rule  ? — In  what  respect  ? 
How  many  kinds  of  comedy  are  there  ? — What  are  they  ? 


262 


COMEDY. 


most  in  comedies  of  character.  Such  are  the  capital 
pieces  of  Moliere.  The  EngKsh  have  inclined  to 
comedies  of  intrigue.  Such  are  the  plays  of  Con- 
greve ;  and  in  general  there  is  more  story,  action,  and 
bustle  in  English,  than  in  French  comedy. 

The  perfection  of  comedy  is  to  be  found  in  a  proper 
mixture  of  these  two  kinds.  Mere  conversation  with- 
out an  interesting  story,  is  insipid.  There  should  ever 
be  so  much  intrigue,  as  to  excite  both  fears  and 
wishes.  The  incidents  should  be  striking,  and  afford 
a  proper  field  for  the  exhibition  of  character.  The 
piece,  however,  should  not  be  overcharged  with 
intrigue ;  for  this  would  be  to  convert  a  comedy  into 
a  novel. 

With  respect  to  characters  it  is  a  common  error  of 
comic  writers,  to  carry  them  much  beyond  real  life ; 
indeed  it  is  very  difficult  to  hit  the  precise  point, 
where  w^it  ends,  and  buffoonery  begins.  The  come- 
dian may  exaggerate ;  but  good  sense  must  teach  him 
where  to  stop. 

In  comedy  there  ought  to  be  a  clear  distinction  in 
characters.  The  contrast  of  characters,  however,  by 
pairs,  and  by  opposites,  is  too  theatrical  and  affected. 
It  is  the  perfection  of  art  to  conceal  art.  A  masterly 
writer  gives  us  his  characters,  distinguished  rather  by 
such  shades  of  diversity,  as  are  commonly  found  in 
society,  than  marked  by  such  oppositions  as  are  sel- 
dom brought  into  actual  contrast  in  any  of  the  cir- 
c  imstances  of  life. 

The  style  of  comedy  ought  to  be  pure,  lively,  and 
elegant,  generally  imitating  the  tone  of  polite  conver- 
sation, and  never  descending  into  gross  expressions. 
Rhyme  is  not  suitable  to  comic  composition  ;  for  what 
has  poetry  to  do  with  the  conversation  of  men  in 


In  what  is  the  perfection  of  comedy  to  be  found  ? 
What  is  a  common  error  of  comic  writers  ? 
How  does  a  masteily  writer  give  us  his  characters  ? 
What  ought  to  be  thi  style  of  comedy  ? 


ANCIENT  COMEDr. 


263 


common  life  ?  The  cmTent  of  tlie  dialogue  should  be 
easy  without  pertness,  and  genteel  without  flippancy. 
The  wit  should  never  be  studied,  nor  unseasonable. 

ANCIENT  COMEDY. 

The  ancient  comedy  was  an  avowed  satire  against 
particular  persons,  brought  upon  the  stage  by  name. 
Such  are  the  plays  of  Aristophanes  ;  and  compositions 
of  so  singular  a  nature  illustrate  well  the  turbulent  and 
licentious  state  of  Athens.  The  most  illustrious  per- 
sonages, generals  and  magistrates,  were  then  made 
the  subjects  of  comedy.  Vivacity,  satire,  and  buf- 
foonery, are  the  characteristics  of  Aristophanes.  On 
many  occasions  he  displays  genius  and  force ;  but  his 
performances  give  us  no  high  idea  of  the  Attic  taste 
for  wit  in  his  age.  His  ridicule  is  extravagant ;  his 
wit  farcical ;  his  personal  raillery  cruel  and  biting ;  and 
his  obscenity  intolerable. 

Soon  after  the  age  of  Aristophanes,  the  hberty  of 
attacking  persons  by  name,  on  the  stage,  was  pro- 
hibited by  law.  The  middle  comedy  then  took  its 
rise.  Living  persons  were  still  attacked,  but  under 
fictitious  names.  Of  these  pieces  we  have  no  remains. 
They  were  succeeded  by  the  new  comedy ;  when  it 
became,  as  it  is  now,  the  business  of  the  stage  to 
exhibit  manners  and  characters,  but  not  those  of  par- 
ticular persons.  The  author  of  this  kind,  most  cele- 
brated among  the  Greeks,  was  Menander ;  but  his 
■sYiitings  are  perished. 

Of  the  new  comedy  of  the  ancients,  the  only  remains 
are  the  plays  of  Plautus  and  Terence.  The  first  is 
eminent  for  the  vis  comica,  and  for  an  expressive 
phraseology.   He  beai-s,  however,  many  marks  of  the 


What  was  the  ancient  comedy  ? — ^What  are  the  characteristics 
of  Aristophanes  ? — What  is  said  of  his  performances  ? 
What  change  took  place  in  comedy  after  the  age  of  Aristophanes? 
What  is  said  of  Plautus  ? 


264 


SPANISH  COMEDY. 


rudeness  of  the  dramatic  art,  in  his  time.  He  has  too 
much  low  wit  and  scurrility  ;  and  is  by  far  too  quaint 
and  full  of  conceit.  He  has  more  variety  and  more 
force  than  Terence ;  and  his  characters  are  strongly 
marked,  though  sometimes  coarsely. 

Terence  is  pohshed,  dehcate,  and  elegant.  His 
style  is  a  model  of  the  most  pure  and  graceful  Latinity. 
His  dialogue  is  always  correct  and  decent ;  and  his 
relations  have  a  picturesque  and  beautiful  simphcity. 
His  morality  is  in  general  unexceptionable ;  his  situa- 
tions are  interesting ;  and  many  of  his  sentiments 
touch  the  heart.  He  may  be  considered  as  the  founder 
of  serious  comedy.  In  sprightliness  and  strength,  he  is 
deficient.  There  is  a  sameness  in  his  characters  and ' 
plots  ;  and  he  is  said  to  have  been  inferior  to  Menan- 
der,  whom  he  copied.  To  form  a  perfect  comic 
author,  the  spirit  and  fire  of  Plautus  ought  to  be  united 
with  the  grace  and  correctness  of  Terence. 

SPANISH  COMEDY. 

The  most  prominent  object  in  modern  comedy  is 
the  Spanish  theatre.  The  chief  comedians  of  Spain 
are  Lopez  de  Vega,  Guillen,  and  Calderon.  The 
first,  who  is  the  most  famous  of  them,  wrote  above  a 
thousand  plays  ;  and  was  infinitely  more  irregular  than 
Shakspeare.  He  totally  disregarded  the  three  unities, 
and  every  established  rule  of  dramatic  writing.  One 
play  often  includes  many  years,  and  even  the  whole 
life  of  a  man.  The  scene,  during  the  first  act,  is  in 
Spain  ;  the  next  in  Italy  ;  and  the  third  in  Africa.  Hia 
plays  are  chiefly  historical ;  and  are  a  mixture  of  he- 
roic speeches,  serious  incidents,  war  and  slaughter, 
ridicule  and  bufibonery.    He  jumbles  together  Chris- 


What  were  the  excellences  of  Terence  ? 

What  is  the  most  prominent  object  in  modern  comedy  ? — Who  are 
tlLS  chief  comedians  of  Spain  ?— What  is  said  of  Lopez  de  Vega  ? 


FRENCH  COMEDY. 


265 


tianity  and  paganism,  virtues  and  vices,  angels  and 
gods.  Notwithstanding  his  faults,  he  possessed  ge- 
nius, and  great  force  of  imagination.  Many  of  his 
characters  are  well  painted ;  many  of  his  situations 
are  happy  ;  and  from  the  source  of  his  rich  invention, 
dramatic  writers  of  other  nations  have  frequently 
drawn  their  materials. 

FRENCH  COMEDY. 

The  comic  theatre  of  France  is  allowed  to  be  cor- 
rect, chaste,  and  decent.  The  comic  author  in  whom 
the  French  glory  most,  is  MoKere.  In  the  judgment 
of  French  critics  he  has  nearly  reached  the  summit 
of  perfection  in  his  art.  Nor  is  this  the  decision  of 
mere  partiality.  Moliere  is  the  satirist  only  of  vice 
and  folly.  His  characters  were  peculiar  to  his  own 
times  ;  and,  in  general,  his  ridicule  was  justly  directed. 
His  comic  powers  were  great ;  and  his  pleasantry  is 
always  innocent.  His  Misanthrope  and  Tartuffe  are 
in  verse,  and  constitute  a  kind  of  dignified  comedy, 
in  which  vice  is  exposed  in  the  style  of  elegant  and 
polite  satire.  In  his  prose  comedies,  there  is  a  pro- 
fusion of  ridicule  ;  but  the  poet  never  gives  alarm  to 
modesty,  nor  casts  contempt  on  ^artue.  With  these 
high  qualities,  however,  considerable  defects  are 
mingled.  In  unravelling  his  plots  he  is  unhappy ;  as 
this  is  frequently  brought  on  with  too  little  prepara- 
tion, and  in  ah  improbable  manner.  In  his  verse 
comedies  he  is  not  always  sufiiciently  interesting , 
and  he  is  too  full  of  long  speeches.  In  his  risible 
pieces  in  prose,  he  is  too  farcical.  But,  upon  the 
whole,  it  may  be  affirmed,  that  few  writers  ever  at- 
tained so  perfectly  the  true  end  of  comedy.  His  Tar- 
tuflfe  and  Avare  are  his  two  capital  productions. 


What  is  the  character  of  the  comic  theatre  of  France  ?-^In  what 
comic  author  do  the  French  most  glory  ? — In  what  is  Moliere  most 
distinguished  ?— What  are  his  defects  ? 


[  266  ] 


ENGLISH  COMEDY. 

From  the  Enghsh  theatre  is  naturally  expected  a 
greater  variety  of  original  characters  in  comedy,  and 
bolder  strokes  of  wit  and  humour,  than  from  any 
other  modern  stage.  Humour  is  in  some  degree 
peculiar  to  England.  The  freedom  of  the  govern- 
ment and  the  unrestrained  liberty  of  Enghsh  manners, 
are  favourable  to  humour  and  sing-ularity  of  character. 
In  France,  the  influence  of  a  despotic  court  spreads 
uniformity  over  the  nation.  Hence  comedy  has  a 
more  amplified  and  a  freer  vein  in  Britain  than  in 
France.  But  it  is  to  be  regretted,  that  the  comic 
spirit  of  Britain  is  often  disgraced  by  indecency  and 
licentiousness. 

The  first  age,  however,  of  English  comedy  was 
not  infected  by  this  spirit.  The  plays  of  Shakspeare 
and  Ben  Jonson  have  no  immoral  tendency.  The 
comedies  of  the  former  display  a  strong,  creative 
genius ;  but  are  irregular  in  conduct.  They  are  sin- 
gularly rich  in  characters  and  manners ;  but  often 
descend  to  please  the  mob.  Jonson  is  more  regular, 
but  stiff  and  pedantic ;  though  not  void  of  dramatic 
genius.  Much  fancy  and  invention,  and  many  fine 
passages,  are'  found  in  the  plays  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher.  But,  in  general,  they  abound  in  romantic 
incidents,  unnatural  characters,  and  coarse  allusions. 

Change  of  manners  has  rendered  the  comedies  of 
the  last  age  obsolete.  For  it  is  the  exhibition  of  pre- 
vailing modes  and  characters,  that  gives  a  charm  to 
comedy.  Thus  Plautus  was  antiquated  to  the  Romans" 
in  the  days  of  Augustus.    But,  to  the  honour  of 


Why  is  there  expected  a  greater  variety  of  original  characters  in 
comedy  from  the  English  than  the  French  theatre  ? — ^What  is  to  ba 
regretted  ? 

What  is  said  of  the  comedies  of  Shakspeare  and  Jonson  ?— What 

of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  ? 
What  is  that  which  gives  a  charm  to  comedy  ? 


ENGLISH  COMEDY. 


261 


Shakspeare,  his  Falstaff  is  still  admired,  and  his  Merry 
"Wives  of  Windsor  read  with  pleasure. 

After  the  restoration  of  Charles  11.  the  licentious- 
ness which  polluted  the  court  and  nation,  seized  upon 
comedy.  The  rake  became  the  predommant  charac- 
ter. Ridicule  was  thrown  upon  chastity  and  sobriety 
:^At  the  end  of  the  play,  indeed,  the  rake  becomes  a 
'  sober  man  ;  but  through  the  performance  he  is  a  fine 
gentleman,  and  exhibits  a  picture  of  the  pleasurable 
enjoyments  of  life.  This  spirit  of  comedy  had  the 
worst  effect  on  youth  of  both  sexes,  and  continued  to 
the  days  of  George  II. 

In  the  comedies  of  Dryden,  there  are  many  strokes 
of  genius  ;  but  he  is  hasty  and  careless.  As  his  object 
was  to  please,  he  followed  the  current  of  the  times, 
and  gave  way  to  indehcacy  and  licentiousness. '  His 
indecency  was,  at  times,  so  gross,  as  to  occasion  a 
prohibition  of  his  plays  on  the  stage. 

After  Dryden,  flourished  Gibber,  Vanburgh,  Far- 
quhar,  and  Congreve.  Gibber  has  sprightliness  and 
a  pert  vivacity ;  but  his  incidents  are  so  forced  and 
unnatural,  that  his  performances  have  all  sunk  into 
obscurity,  excepting  The  Gareless  Husband,  and  The 
Provoked  Husband.  Gf  these,  the  fii'st  is  remarkable 
'  yr  the  easy  politeness  of  the  dialogue  ;  and  it  is  tole- 
rably moral  in  its  conduct.  The  latter,  in  which 
Gibber  was  assisted  by  Vanburgh,  is  perhaps  the  best 
comedy  in  the  English  language  ;  and  even  to  this  it 
may  be  objected,  that  it  has  a  double  plot.  Its  cha- 
racters, however,  are  natm-al,  and  it  abounds  with 
fine  painting  and  happy  strokes  of  humour. 

Gf  late  years  a  sensible  reformation  has  taken  place 
in  EngHsh  comedy.     Gur  writers  of  comedy  now 


What  took  place  in  plays  after  the  restoration  of  Charles  11.  ?— 
"What  effect  had  this  spirit  of  comedy,  and  how  long  did  it  continue  1 
What  is  said  of  Dryden's  comedies  ? 

What  comic  -writers  flourished  after  Dryden  ? — ^What  is  obserred 
of  Gibber? 

What  reformation  in  comedy  has  taken  place  of  late  years  ? 


268 


ENGLISH  COMEDY. 


appear  ashamed  of  the  indecency  of  their  predeces- 
sors. They  may  be  inferior  to  Farquhar  and  Con- 
gi'ev^  in  spirit,  ease,  and  wit ;  but  they  have  the  merit 
of  being  far  more  innocent  and  moral. 

To  the  French  stage  we  are  much  indebted  for  this 
refoiTnation.  The  introduction  within  a  few  years  of 
a  graver  comedy  in  France,  called  the  serious  or  tender 
comedy,  has  attracted  the  attention  and  approbation 
of  our  writers.  Gayety  and  ridicule  are  not  excluded 
from  tliis  species  of  comedy;  but.it  lays  the  chief 
stress  on  tender  and  interesting  situations.  It  is  senti- 
mental, and  touches  the  heart.  It  pleases  not  so 
much  by  the  laughter  it  excites,  as  by  the  tears  of  af- 
fection and  joy  which  it  draws  forth. 

This  form  of  comedy  was  opposed  in  France,  as  an 
unjustifiable  innovation.  It  was  objected  by  critics, 
that  it  was  not  founded  on  laughter  and  ridicule  ;  but 
it  is  not  necessary  that  all  comedies  be  formed  on  one 
precise  model.  Some  may  be  gay ;  some  serious ; 
and  some  may  partake  of  both  qualities.  Serious  and 
tender  comedy  has  no  right  to  exclude  gayety  and 
ridicule  from  the  stage.  There  are  mateiials  for  both ; 
and  the  stage  is  richer  for  the  innovation.  In  gene- 
ral, it  may  be  considered  as  a  mark  of  increasing  po- 
hteness  and  refinement,  when  those  theatrical  exhibi 
tions  become  fashionable,  which  are  free  from  indeli- 
cate sentiment  and  an  immoral  tendency. 


To  what  are  the  English  indebted  for  this  reformation  ? — What 
kind  of  comedy  has  been  introdxiced  in  France  ? — What  are  the  pe- 
culiarities of  this  species  of  comedy  ? 

Was  this  form  of  comedy  approved  in  France  ? — For  what  reason  ? 
—What  may  be  considered  a  mark  of  increasing  politeness  and  re- 
ftnement  ? 


THE  END. 


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